


Learning to Be Again

by Ebozay



Series: Learning [1]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Azgeda, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Healing, Original Character(s), POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-22
Updated: 2017-04-26
Packaged: 2018-10-22 12:04:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 28,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10696644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ebozay/pseuds/Ebozay
Summary: After the fall of the mountain Clarke needs to get away from everyone and everything she has known. Feeling lost she wanders, unsure and uncertain of what her future holds. During her self imposed exile she meets someone, at once familiar but altogether unknown but maybe someone who can help set her on the path to acceptance, understanding and forgiveness. But despite trying to find herself, danger is never far, and Clarke must face her demons.





	1. Chapter 1

Your feet really started hurting two days into your self imposed exile. Each step a constant reminder that walking away from everything had been your choice. To leave everything behind. You can’t really remember how long it’s been, you think maybe three weeks. The first week was the hardest, Mother Nature rearing her ugly, brutal head, letting it be known just how woefully unprepared for the ground you really were. Legs aching, joints stiff and sore, hunger and thirst becoming a constant companion. But you needed to get away from it all, you think it was the right decision, a selfish decision maybe, but one you needed to make. And so you did. 

You’d found berries, and a small stream a week in. Lingering for only a moment, just enough to rest, recuperate just a bit, and then you were moving again, a slow, painful, deserved pace further away from everything.  

The second week you ran out of bullets for your handgun after being attacked by an animal intent on eating you. Maybe you would have deserved it, you think you do. But you didn’t die when the drop ship came down, and you didn’t die between then and the mountain. You sure as shit were too stubborn to die now, even if you felt like you deserved it. You attempt skinning the animal (and quite poorly). What was it? Panther? Cougar? Are they the same thing? You don’t care, but you do care about not paying attention to Earth Skills class. _Ironic_ you think. The seemingly most useless class you attended now becomes one you really ought to have paid attention to. Did they even teach how to skin an animal? _Nope._ The skin you use as a makeshift blanket, a barrier between you and the increasingly cold air, anything to stave off an inevitable, cold, slow death. You think that maybe living is a worse punishment though, alone with your thoughts, and your anger and your hurt and the resentment stifling you. 

The tiring, painful days, and the cold, chilling nights leave you with time to think, ponder and go over every decision you made, every choice you chose, every action you took that led you to where you are today. And, after all this time to just think, you’re not too sure why you chose the direction that you did when you had started. To get away from the mountain? To put as much distance between you and everyone and everything you know? To the east was the ocean, you knew that much to be true and after the incident with Octavia and the river monster, you really, really wanted to avoid large, ominous bodies of water, plus you can’t swim. To the north you think is where the Ice Nation lays. You’d overheard warriors among the chatter of the war camp. You didn’t know enough of the language to fully grasp what they were saying, but you remembered hearing _Azgeda_ , you remembered the disgusted looks on the faces and you remembered _her_ story. So not North you decided. You aren’t too keen on having your head removed from where it sits above your shoulders. Not yet.

By what you think is the third week you’ve travelled further away, the trees this far south have grown even taller, even wider than you thought possible. Finding food is surprisingly easy. Berries aren’t uncommon where you’ve found yourself. Eating them is perhaps a gamble though. A game of chance, trial and error. The ones you’d found the first week in had led to you shivering and shaking through the night. You made sure to remember what they looked like. You weren’t going to eat them again. Not yet, anyway. You’d found edible berries, their flesh hard, bitter, but seemingly safe. Collecting as many as you could, you had set about finding a place to sleep, to rest. You claimed a fallen tree, it’s core rotted but serving as a place to stay. A home. And, at least it was dry - mostly. Water was a challenge, but you’d found a creek meandering an winding its way through the forest, perhaps an hour’s walk from the tree. 

So you fall into an easy rhythm. Forage for berries. Drink and bathe at the creek. Attempt to start a fire. Some nights you are able, most you give up after your arms become too tired. And you sit. The damp, green moss becoming your bedding. The poorly skinned animal hide your sheeting. The tree, in all its cold, damp, rough glory your home. If this had been a different time, a better time, it might have come to you that it was a beautiful place. Full of birdsong, of the sun filtering through a canopy of green hues and rough, twisted browns. But you don’t feel like anything could really be beautiful. Not now. Not after. Not yet. Maybe someday? 

Sleep comes fitfully. You don’t remember your dreams. Maybe you don’t need to. Your waking moments are bad enough. Anger, resentment. Hurt, loss. Lingering just under the surface. Constant companions to add to the ever present hunger and thirst. You aren’t so sure who to direct your simmering emotions towards. Her? You? Maybe both you think. 

 

* * *

 

Days bleed into weeks, maybe even a month or two, you aren’t sure, you lost count many sleeps ago. Days are filled with poorly made attempts at berry soup, bitter, tasteless and altogether unsatisfying. Proper, satisfying food is something you have longed for since you landed on the earth, probably your whole life with the food of the Ark not really enough to satisfy an ever lingering hunger. You remember setting out one bitter morning. You managed to catch a bird - somehow. Dumb, stupid, beginners luck you think. The feathers you added to your bedding - anything to keep you warm. The bones you fashioned into different tools - poorly. You had slept just a bit more comfortably, your stomach more full than it had been in days. You thought you could have done that forever. You think you can do it forever. So you do. This easy, hard rhythm. Wake, forage, try to hunt, and sit, and sit, and think. And sleep - when it comes. And try to forget. 

 

* * *

 

You wake to the faint crackling of fire, of faint wisps of smoke filling your nostrils and a presence nearby. Lingering, constant, familiar. Maybe it’s the lack of food, or just the welcome appearance of warmth and a respite from the biting cold - it has grown far too cold for your space borne body - but it takes you longer than it should to open your eyes. Just a bit, but just enough to glimpse a hunched figure, slowly stirring a flame blackened pot, sitting by the entrance of your hollowed out tree home. 

The figure’s back is to you but, despite the grey and brown leathers and furs you’re sure it’s a woman from her frame. Slim, lithe and strong. Familiar.

You rise slowly, blinking away the sleep. Your hand reaches for the makeshift spear you had fashioned, just in case. You see her tense at the sound of you stirring, you see her look over a shoulder at you. Your breath catches. Just enough and just for a moment longer than comfortable before you exhale. Familiar green meets blue.  She turns fully to meet you now, cheeks rosy from the cold. face partly wrapped in a protective scarf. 

 _Looks warm,_ your sleep and nutrition deprived brain thinks.  

“You have travelled far,” she says, tugging the scarf from her face, “from where you fell.”  

You stare at her now, shocked, stunned. She followed you all this way? You feel anger bubbling just under the surface, a volcano splitting at the seams, stitching pulling in all directions. Your breathing laboured, coming in hard, ragged gasps, emotions roiling and tumultuous, a hurricane of anger, hurt, loss. And then…  

“Go fuck yourself,” you seethe. It surprises you how much venom and strength you can muster now. You sit up fully, fists balling, knuckles whitening and teeth grinding. You bring your knees in front of you, to better ward off the cold. Or is it to shield yourself from the last person you want to see? Who caused you so much anger, who you blame. It’s not really her that you blame though, is it. Isn’t it? 

 _It’s not_ , some part of your muddled brain whispers back. 

Surprise flitters across her face for just a moment, recognition, regret maybe? Acceptance probably. She studies you for a long moment, allowing you to sit and stew and seethe and glare glinting daggers her way.  

“I am not her,” she sighs, breaking you from your surprised and angry stupor. The sound sits comfortably on her lips. You think she knows that sound all too well. 

You blink. You stare, mouth agape. That wasn’t the response you thought you’d get. An apology? No, but maybe a reason for her actions from her ever logical self. But this? Denying who she is? The response is enough to throw your angry equilibrium off just slightly, turning down your boiling emotions to a warm simmer. You think you must look comical with your lips parted in surprise. You must with the way her mouth quirks up just slightly at the corner, all too familiar, leaving your insides twisting from what, you can’t tell (Anger? Resentment? Something else, maybe? Lack of food. Probably).  

This whole situation though? The one person who caused all this, is the one person to find you so far from everything.You’d laugh, maybe. Or you’d cry. Who really knows? You do. But you’re far too tired to laugh. You’re far too dehydrated to cry. Both becoming far too apparent in your tired, starving, bloodied, cold state. Serves you right though, for wandering off, right? Right. You’ve gone off on a tangent you realise with a start. You should probably close your mouth.

“What?” 

“I am not her,” she repeats, “I am not Heda,” and she gestures now, waving her hand over her head. You see it, the sides shaved close to the scalp leaving a thick, curling mane of hair running along the centre, cascading down her back. An all too familiar set of braids keeping it back and out of her eyes. You spy a tattoo that weaves its way down the right side of her scalp, tucking behind her ear. A vine you think. It’s all  very… Lincoln of her you realise. Your eyes snap back to hers. Green looks back. You see mirth.   

 _Ok_. Maybe she might not be _her_. You think she isn’t but you’re tired and dehydrated, and sleeping on the cold, hard, shitty ground sucks so you might just be crazy enough to be imagining this, with it all in your head. It’d be funny even, your dying mind conjuring up the last person you want to see, a last vestige of mocking self deprecation before your time’s up.  

You don’t realise you’re laughing (wheezing more like it, you can thank going days with hardly any water and a lack of using your voice) until you’re hit in the face with a stick. A chuckle escapes her lips as you blink owlishly back, a scowl forming on your face. You rub the sore spot on your cheek, it hurt. You glare at her now, but, despite that, 

“I am Cleopatra,” her chin juts out just slightly, eyes twinkling with amusement, before she continues, “or Cleo.” 

“Or Cleo,” you mull the word - name - over in your head. Cleo. You take her in then. The angle of her nose, the curve of her cheek, the green of her eyes. _Cleo_. “Ok.” you nod. It makes sense doesn’t it? No it fucking doesn’t.  

But who are you to judge?  

 

* * *

 

Long moments pass between you both as you take in her words. You’d never given it a thought but now that you’re confronted by the proof you can’t help but wonder how much you don’t know, didn’t consider. Of course she had family, a mother? A father? brothers even? A sister obviously. you can’t help but feel a spark of barely there curiosity that adds to the burning storm you feel just under the surface. You nod then, look at her and try and look past the face.  

“Ok,” you whisper again, “you’re her sister, a twin” you add lamely.  

“We were born the same night,” she looks at you, “I am older,” _smug_.  

You‘d laugh at that, if you weren’t still feeling shocked at the revelation of a twin, why, you aren’t sure. You look at Cleo now, you see features, familiar yet very different, her face well lived, of laughter and freedom, a stark contrast to _her_ stoic, impassive, controlled one. 

Filling a small bowl with the broth from the pot, she hands it to you, carefully, interrupting your wandering thoughts, “Here. It is warm, you look hungry,” she says. 

 _It does look and smell much better than what you’ve been surviving off._ You think.

Tentatively you reach out and take it, murmuring a word of thanks. It warms your chilled hands, it fills your nose with scents, heady, and mouth watering and you greedily drink from the lip of the vessel in your hands. She watches you quietly throughout, occasionally stirring the pot. 

It’s a comfortable silence between you both, Cleo seems content to merely sit, observe and refill your bowl when you empty its contents. She looks at you from time to time, not judging but thoughtful, not prying but more so a problem she is solving, turning you over in her mind, this way and that, slowly but surely. You don’t mind. You’re surprised to find that company is something you missed. Even if it shares _her_ face. So you continue to drink slowly from the bowl, happy to let the heat from the broth spread warmth through your belly, and the heat from the flame warm your body. 

“What did Alexandria do?” She finally asks, breaking the silence. 

Your head snaps up at the name, “Alexandria?”  

Cleo repeats the question, still looking at you all too knowingly, “Heda,” she tacks on.

Oh,

_Oh._

Alexandria, Heda. _Alexandria, Lexa._ you tuck that piece of information away for a later time, a time where you can better deconstruct why the revelation of _her_ name sends your emotions into a seething, roiling, calming, constant ache.

Looking back at Cleo you see she’s waiting for an answer, brows furrowed. 

“Oh,” is all you can muster. The silence again lingers between you, stretching out for a long, quiet moment. You think she’s still waiting for an answer, but maybe from the way her brows furrow further and the tilt of her head as she thinks you over that she might just know, have answered her own question.  

 “You should come back to my village,” she says eventually, “you are tired, hungry. The winters are harsh, you are not prepared and will die,” blunt, to the point.  

Your eyes dart back and forth, focused on the ground, somewhere between you both. Cleo continues to look at you, not demanding, but searching, waiting, patient.  

“It is small,” she adds, “out of the way.”  

You look up at her then, her eyes appraising you.  

 _Small. Out of the way._  

You think it sounds nice.

 

* * *

 

Cleo offers to let you sleep, tells you that the choice can be made tomorrow, when you aren’t so tired, and have had time to sort through all she has told you, even offers to come back tomorrow if you wish to be alone. It’d be rude you think, to send her back to her village, only to have to come back tomorrow, with a possible answer of _no, you’ve wasted your time, I’m happy to spend the rest of my life in this tree thank you very much._ And, even if her face does remind you of things you wish you could forget, you’ve got manners. 

And, despite the absence of any real proof, you can't help but think that maybe, just maybe, _she_ has sent her here - she must have you think, they’re bloody twins. Don’t twins have a weird connection? _No, that’s nonsense_ you hear your mother say, tone speckled with exasperation and annoyance - it’s just a folktale, a made up myth, isn’t it? You don’t even know. But you do know that you’re tired.

“I will keep watch,” Cleo offers, she must sense that you’re open to allowing her to spend the night, with the way your eyes start to droop, just a bit, but enough to signal your waning energy. You nod your acceptance, thoughts soon to be drifting off to somewhere unpleasant, angry and dark, but, before the claws of sleep slowly creep in and set themselves upon you, you’re content, not happy, but satisfied. To just be.

 

* * *

 

You wake once again to the crackling of a fire, the faint wisps of smoke filling your nostrils, of scents, spiced and aromatic. Resting a moment to recall the memories of the previous day, to gather your thoughts. Then you sit, stretch and rub the sleep from your eyes. Looking around you don’t see Cleo, she isn’t sitting by the fire like she was yesterday. You scan your surroundings, a pack lies against the curved inside of the tree - hers you think - she’ll be back you think. The pot simmers lightly atop the fire, your belly grumbles - would it be rude to start eating from the pot, without her present? Probably.  

It’s not long before she returns, an armful of sticks she adds to the fire increasing its heat, the increased warmth all at once welcome. She looks at you now, and, once again fills the bowl and passes it to you. You murmur your thanks. You’re halfway through the bowl before you realise she hasn’t eaten any.  

Looking at her over the bowl, eyebrows raised, “aren’t you having some?” you ask. 

“I have eaten already,” she smiles back, it’s soft and it’s strange, seeing that face freely using emotion, you feel a voyeur to something private, something not meant for you to see so you cast your eyes downwards. Cleo, again, is happy to let the silence hang between you, comfortable and easy. Until she speaks again.  

“She hurt you,” Cleo looks from across the fire at you, the orange red glow of the flame dancing across her face, reminding you of late night arguments, of tactics and battle plans lit by the glow of a fire and coals, glowing faintly. You raise your eyes to meet hers. You know who she means. 

“Yeah,” you don’t think you can deny it. She must have known by the way you reacted yesterday, by the way you avoided her questions, by the way you avoid looking at her. 

“ _Lexa_ hurt you,” Her eyes look at you, _her_ eyes looks at you and you turn your head away, you’re icarus, if you get too close, if you _look_ too closely you’ll be burnt. You’ll suffer, you’ll… you’ll what? You’re already suffering. Can you suffer more? This time you offer no reply, and she doesn’t push, accepting your silence and non-answers. She sits, hands raised towards the open flame and lets you finish the rest of your broth. 

Some time passes before she speaks again, “Do you wish to come back to my village? It’s small -“ 

“And out of the way,” you interject with a smile, faint but it’s there. She smiles in return. 

“And out of the way,” she repeats, her tone not quite pleading, but somewhere between that and curious.  

“Yeah,” you answer. What else can you do. You realise that you would die out here, by yourself. The last two meals she provided have been more than a week’s worth of meals you’ve been able to make yourself, the fire has been better at keeping the cold at bay than your animal skin - already in taters. And your sorry excuse for fire? No comparison you think. You return her gaze, and, “I’ll go with you.”

 

* * *

 

The journey, she tells you, is only a few candle marks (a few hours you think from her explanation) travel from where you are, deeper south into the forrest surrounding you - right into the heart of Trikru lands. You can’t help but wonder if Cleo was sent here, so far into Trikru lands as to avoid those that liked removing heads. _Her_ story makes you think that maybe that might partly be why. But you also realise by the way Cleo speaks of the forrest, of the trees and the creatures and the stories that exist, live and breathe that maybe Cleo enjoys living here, you can imagine it. It’s tranquil, peaceful, beautiful. She smiles freely when she engages you in quiet conversation. You still avert your eyes. But there are moments when she slips into the warrior you assume her to be, where she stops you both in place, brings a finger to her lips and waits and listens - these moments are more painful - they make Cleo look much too like _her._ So here too, you avert your eyes, and you listen and wait for her to signal that you can move on. 

“Hey,” you disturb the silence after a long stretch, only broken by the soft pants of breath you exhale as you struggle through the thick forest, “how did you find me?” you ask, the question having gnawed at you for the last hour.  

Cleo looks back at you, “A hunter found you,” she replies, “almost eight days ago. He came back, told me of Wanheda roaming the forests near our village, so I came to see for myself.” 

“Wanheda?” you haven’t heard that before,  

“You are called Wanheda, Clarke,” You’re happy she doesn’t say your name the same. You don’t think you could take it, but… 

“How’d you know my name,” you ask, “I never told you.”  

“Word travels fast, Clarke, of a woman with golden hair that fell from the sky, defeating 300 warriors, negotiating with Heda, helping to cure the reapers and defeating the Mountain, only to vanish afterwards,” she looks at you again, “then you appear.”  

“Makes sense,” you agree, “but, the thing you called me? Wanheda what does it-”  

“Commander of Death,” she cuts in.  

You blanch at that, feet stopping. You feel anger begin to rise, not directed at Cleo exactly, but anger all the same, you feel it simmer and burn, seething and churning and twisting underneath your skin, causing your heart to beat erratically, faster and faster until-

Cleo shakes your arm firmly, and holds your gaze, breaking you from the angry… _something_ that had begun to consume you, “Wanheda, the Commander of Death, does not just mean choosing who dies, Clarke,” you look at her, doubt colouring your face, “The title is more than that. It means someone who can command death, not just to cause it, but to stop it, to save life - to control death in both it’s existence and its absence. Do you understand?”  

“But that’s all I’ve done,” you stammer out, voice shaky and weak, “since I landed I’ve killed, I burnt 300 warriors, and the Mountain - I” and you pause, your breath coming in ragged gasps, you can’t quite articulate how or what you want to say - that you killed hundreds to save your friends - but it was necessary, _both_ times you think. Cleo seems to understand, or at least grasp just how deep your scars go. You’ve both stopped walking now, her hand rests atop your shoulder, grounding you, her gaze tender but firm and steady. 

“But you also heal, Clarke. You are a healer, yes?” You nod, “Did you not help to cure the reapers?” Again, you nod.

“But I haven’t saved hundreds,” You protest weakly. 

Cleo pauses for a quiet drop of time, eyes thoughtful, “Perhaps, then, you can begin to do just that, Clarke” Cleo offers with a smile, warm and friendly and hopeful. 

Maybe you can. 

 

* * *

 

It’s not long after the revelation of your title that you stand before the open gates to the village. Vines and trees grow and twist and snake their way between the gates and wall that surround what you can see of the village. Though small, you can see the telltale sign of defences, spiked tips jut from the top of the defensive wall, built of stone cracked and shaped into place, and of metal twisted, rusted in places but strong and sturdy all the same. With the gate open, you can see a few people walking within the village, some clearly warriors, bows and arrows, broad swords or heavy axes strapped across backs, others are younger - children running underfoot, playing and chasing. You see elderly people too, milling around a large bonfire further into the centre of the village.  

“How many people live here?” You ask, eyes darting around, trying to take in what you can. 

“No more than a hundred,” Cleo replies, “often times much less when the warriors are called away. It is a small village especially now with many having been called to the Mountain, but we survive well, together.” You nod in understanding, in a way, it’s much like the Drop Ship, less than a hundred people just trying to survive, but unlike the delinquents, you think sardonically, these Grounders are not helpless and naive, but strong, proud and at home on the ground and among the trees. 

As Cleo begins guiding you through the open gate, your attention is caught by the distant clanging of metal on metal, and the sound of flesh hitting flesh. You turn to her, eyebrows raised quizzically. 

“Training grounds,” she offers, you nod. “This way,” she points, leading you down a path, away from the all too familiar sounds echoing around you.  

Your attention turns back to the path you walk. Occasionally making eye contact with a villager, you nod in greeting, most greet you in turn, eyes wide, while others ignore you out of fear, wariness or something else you’re not sure.   

“They knew you might be coming,” Cleo offers after another villager stares wide eyed at you, “But you are still Wanheda, Mountain Slayer to them.” You fight to ignore the tension building in your belly, force it down and out of thought for the time being. 

Turning a corner, you come to a clearing, along the perimeter are trees, sparsely placed, their branches already bare, their brown and red leaves fanning out beneath them, a memory of what they once were and an image of what could be once again. The ground you notice, isn’t the hard packed dirt you’d expect from a well traversed clearing. It’s all sharp rocks, jagged corners and knife edges. Splotches of rusty brown litter areas, splashed across the clearing. 

You see a girl, perhaps 10, limbs gangly, trying hard to block the swift, brutal strikes of a man, a warrior, fearsome and looming.     

“What’s happening?” you ask, watching the girl as she is backed further and further towards the opposite end of the clearing, “why isn’t she with the others at the training ground?” Cleo follows your gaze, eyes falling upon the girl as she forces herself to her feet after having been struck down moments ago by the warrior. “Did she do something wrong?” you finish. You watch as the girl levels her dulled blade in front of her, readying for an attack or to defend, which ever comes first.

“It is not punishment,” Cleo responds, “She asked for it.” That gives you pause, makes you consider the _more_ of the situation, Cleo must sense your confusion, so she adds, “she was not chosen as a second last season, she wishes to train harder. So that she may be chosen.” Cleo’s eyes remain fixed on the girl.

“Oh, that’s…” you trail off, unsure of what to say, that it’s sad? That you’re sorry? Your thoughts turn to Anya, and to Tris, the young second who had been wounded crossing the bridge, who had followed her first into battle, who had died. You blink away the wetness you feel pooling in the corner of your eye, shake your head to clear the thoughts from your mind. “Why?” you ask.  

“We are all trained to survive when we are old enough, most start by our third or fourth birth season of life, if we live long enough,” Cleo turns to you now, “When we can survive, we are chosen, some as warriors to replace those whose fight has ended, but some are chosen as farmers or hunters or craftsmen,” She looks pointedly at you, “healers, too.” 

“It doesn't sound like they’re given a choice,” You say, head cocked to the side. Out the corner of your eye you see the girl block a downward slash from her attacker, a toothy grin forming, only to have her dulled blade ripped from her hands and a swift blow sets her sprawled on her back. “What if they don’t want to be what’s chosen for them?”  

“Most must adapt,” comes the answer, “but we can make exceptions. If a warrior truly does not want to fight, they are a danger to themselves and those they fight alongside. But a lack of will to fight does not mean they can not help, can not contribute. They may make an excellent hunter if they are good with the bow, or a better craftsmen if they are good with the blade, even a good blacksmith if they are strong,” Cleo catches your eye and you nod back in understanding.  

“So the girl…?” You trail off. 

“Yasmin,” Cleo offers, “She wishes to be a warrior, like her parents.” 

“Is that her father?” you ask, looking at the man now, dark hair pulled back in a tight braid, the length running down his back, features sharp, angular. You find it hard to imagine him being the father of Yasmin you think, whose own features are softer, eyes blue and bright, face round, but determined, signs of childish youth still clinging to it, her hair a long ruddy brown, but light and pulled back in a messy braid, errant strands sticking to her sweaty, reddened face. 

“No, not her father,” Cleo says, eyes softening as she again looks to Yasmin, who is trying valiantly to land a strike, a kick, anything on the man as he easily out paces her tiring, sloppy movements. “Her father was taken by the Mountain.” You tense just slightly at the mention of the Mountain, before forcing yourself to settle.

“And her mother?” You prompt, but you think you already know the answer.

“She did not survive childbirth,” You nod at that, unsure of what to say or how to respond other than to offer your silence as a too late show of condolence.  

You both turn to look once more upon Yasmin, nose now bloodied, legs shaking and arms falling under the weight of holding her sword out in front of her.

“I do not think she will be chosen as a warrior again this season,” It’s wistful, mournful even, tinged with a sadness you don’t expect, “She has tried very hard.” Cleo pulls her eyes from Yasmin now, expression sorrowful, “Perhaps she will make a good hunter.” 


	2. Chapter 2

Cleo shows you to a small hut, more tent than permanent structure, that lies within the confines of the village, its back to a copse of trees, branches bare of leaves that instead lay liberally across the ground, painting it in rich reds and murky browns. Other huts lie on either side, all sharing a common, tent-like non permanence. 

“These tents are for warriors as they pass through,” Cleo says, “They have been empty for a few moons.” _Empty since the Mountain_ you think. “Dinner will be served at the village square, once night falls. It is easy to find,” she says, indicating back the way you came, “you will also find the washrooms that way. You may stay here for as long as you wish, Clarke,” she finishes, smiling at you softly.

You murmur your thanks as Cleo leaves, before pushing open the door to the hut and stepping inside. It’s small but cozy you quickly find. One small table, worn and old sits against the far wall of the hut, a trunk on the opposite, simple yet elegant carvings of trees and vines adorn it. A curtain hangs from the roof, and pulling it aside reveals a small bed covered in furs, old, often slept in but you think it looks warm and soft - a bed, you realise, is a luxury you’ve missed since coming to the ground, maybe even before that. The bed in your cell wasn’t exactly comfortable you remember, not like the one in your old quarters on the Ark. Shaking the thoughts from your mind, you turn your back to the bed and find the centre of the hut holds a small fireplace, a pile of wood already prepared, waiting for use sits nearby. You think you really should learn how to make a fire reliably - maybe you’ll ask Cleo for help tomorrow. But for now you’re too tired, too exhausted and drained. From having walked, from having to sift through revelations of twins and of merely having to survive with only your thoughts of anger and resentment and hurt to keep you company.  

You struggle out of your clothes, only realising just how dirty and in need of a wash - or burning - they are when you’re left in your undergarments, boots kicked off to the side and clothes piled on the ground in a lazy lump. Your bones ache and your muscles protest each movement towards the bed and, before your head hits the pillow you think you’re already asleep. 

You spend the rest of the day and the night in a fitful unkind slumber.

 

* * *

 

You wake early the next morning, wrapped in warm furs, but still, the chill of a soon to be winter seeps into your bones. You lay there for a long while, allowing yourself to just think. You hear the telltale sound of people moving about outside, you think you even hear horses, and the metal clang of steel on steel - You should expect that you think, from what you’ve seen. Grounders always seem prepared for battle. They needed to be with the Mountain a constant, daunting threat. But now with the Mountain gone? You aren’t too sure. Maybe habits are hard to break, maybe that’s just how you survive on the ground, always moving, always doing something lest your thoughts turn towards the unsavoury, the dark and the dangerous.

 

* * *

 

Stepping out of your hut, you find a parcel, wrapped in cloth leaning against the hut wall, bending down, you find it to be clothes of warm furs and soft animal skins, shades of dark brown and green that would blend in well with the forest, there’s even a pair of boots, well worn, but sturdy and clean. _That answers your clothing issue_ you think. It’s not long until you exit the hut for a second time, this time covered in your newly acquired furs, and they’re warm, really warm, and soft and you can’t help but smile to yourself as you make your way to the city centre in search of food. You had forgotten just how nice it was to wear clean clothes - even if you haven’t bathed properly for a few days. You’ll deal with that soon you find yourself thinking, thoughts of feeling clean once more putting a spring into your step.

Walking past the clearing from yesterday you see the same girl, Yasmin, sitting by herself, her back to a tree. You pause and allow yourself a moment to gaze at her. Your eye catches the glint of steel as it reflects the sun’s rays, shining and sharp. You’re not sure why, but your feet start to move towards her, and it’s not until you’re half way through the clearing, sharp rocks crunching underfoot that she looks up from sharpening a knife, small but wicked and deadly. Her face scrunches up in confusion for just a moment, before settling on wary caution as you come to a stop a few paces from where she sits. 

Looking at her, you see her hair still in that single messy braid down her back, a bruise forming on her cheek where she was struck, nose still slightly swollen. But her gaze is bright, strong and determined, 

“I saw you yesterday, with the man,” You venture as introduction, and she nods, 

“I saw you too, with Cleo,” her voice is soft, a faint lilt to the way she speaks. 

“Can I sit?” you ask, motioning vaguely to the space besides her. She seems to contemplate your question for a moment, peers up at you through thick eyelashes, before nodding once. And, like other grounders you’ve met, Yasmin seems happy to sit in silence, all the while sharpening her knife, the faint scrape of the whetstone ringing out lowly. It’s relaxing, you think, this easy rhythm that Yasmin keeps.

“It’s a beautiful knife,” you probe, and it is. The blade a dark, warm grey, a faint wave pattern weaving its way down the edge of it, an artefact of the forging process. You can make out cloth wrapped around the handle, a faded green. You think it was once vibrant and cheerful. You can even see etchings of patterns and shapes that adorn the pommel. 

“It was my nomon’s,” Yasmin whispers, hand stilling in the middle of running the whetstone down the blade. 

You aren’t entirely sure what to do in a situation like this, let alone for someone you don’t even really know. But you think you should do something, offer some form of shared experience, if only to open yourself up to someone unfamiliar, free of judgement. 

So you do.

“My father died,” you whisper in turn, closing your eyes for a brief moment before opening them and turning to look at Yasmin and her eyes meet yours. There’s a lack of innocence in them that haunts you, that makes you feel much younger than she is, even if it’s not the case, even despite what you’ve done since arriving on the ground. You’ve only known death as brutal, quick moments that have sped past you, the flash flood of your existence since arriving on the ground. But for Yasmin? You think she has known death and suffering her whole life. You know she has. But it isn’t swift and it doesn’t flash past her. It exists, she floats atop it, just waiting for her time to sink into its grasp. 

“Was it a good death?” she asks quietly and you chuckle softly at that. Her question doesn't surprise you, not really, not now since you’ve landed on the ground. You didn’t think any death could be a good death. That concept was foreign to your naive younger self. But now? You think you can accept it for what it is. Perhaps not agree with it being _good._ But accept the concept nonetheless. You know _she_ would say that your father’s death was a good one. So you nod, a quiet _yes_ whispered back, and you smile at Yasmin now and you see one grace her lips in return, it’s soft and sad, but it’s a smile you think that is important. Something that you can both share in sadness.

“This is the only thing I have left of him,” you point to the watch on your wrist, “It’s not much, but it keeps him close,” And she looks at the watch strapped around your wrist, a quiet and thoughtful understanding upon her face and she in turn motions to her knife, hand open so that you can see the faded green cloth wrapped around the handle. And you understand, you really do.

You sit in silence again, the morning breeze cool yet crisp as it breaks across your skin. You think maybe she won’t speak again, too focused on sharpening her knife. 

But she breaks the stillness of the moment with a quiet exhale of words and pained truths, “I won’t be seconded to a warrior this season,” it’s disappointment and heartache, “I try so hard, but,” she pauses, wipes her eyes with the back of her sleeve, “I am good with my knife - everyone must be,” her lip trembles slightly, “I am not good with a sword,” she looks up at you now, tears filling her eyes, threatening to break and spill and flow freely, but they don’t. She holds them back. And your heart breaks, just a little, but enough to know you should care, and you do. So you reach out, gently, slowly and timid, and you rest your hand on her back and slowly rub patterns across it. You aren’t sure that you’ve succeeded in providing what little comfort you can, the motions feeling awkward and foreign to you, but you think she appreciates it all the same the way the tears reach a crescendo and then they fall silently.

You think that perhaps you both need someone strange and unfamiliar to provide what little comfort there is without fear of judgement and preconceived ideas and so you say to her softly, “I don’t like killing, I don’t enjoy it, It’s brutal, and violent,” you pause, your own eyes filling with tears, and you think back to those nights alone in the forest, where you would scream and cry and shout and plead. Sleep always fitful. Anger and resentment and hurt and loss threatening to overwhelm you, “There’s more to being a warrior than just taking life,” you finish, thinking back to the words Cleo spoke to you. _Maybe you can begin to save lives._

“But, aren’t you Wanheda?” And you smile at that, you see yourself in the very same way Yasmin looks at you, and so again you repeat the words Cleo said to you, words of death but also of life and Yasmin looks at you, brows furrowed in thought, but you think she understands, you hope she understands.

“My mother is a healer,” You pause to glance at her, “I trained as a healer,” You look pointedly at her now, “you could be a healer, too,” and you think she understands your offer, you see it in the way her eyes widen ever so slightly, in the way her mouth falls open, lips forming the smallest of O’s. You think she will say yes, you hope she will. And when she begins nodding, mouth forming an uncontrollable grin, you can’t help but smile in turn. 

 

* * *

 

And so the days pass by, a blur of activity, always keeping your mind busy during your waking moments, of hours spent teaching Yasmin all you can remember of your medical training, going over proper ways to diagnose different illnesses from flus and colds to others that may be more serious. You show her how to check for concussions, how to wrap wounds small and large, how to clean and care for them, how to stitch wounds and how to set bones and make splints. And through all this, you find that Yasmin applies herself to the tasks, throwing herself head first into your teachings with a childish vigour and enthusiasm that you find infectious and you can’t help but think that maybe you both needed something other to think about. Something to take your mind off the past and let you think of the present and maybe to the future.   

 

* * *

 

You wake sometime into your second week staying at the village, an extra bite in the cold morning air - you think winter must have really set its claws in by now. You lie for just a moment before rolling over and pulling the furs from you and you let out a small gasp of shock as the cold air bites into you, goose bumps forming quickly across your bare arms and legs. You see Yasmin tucked into her small bed, furs wrapped snugly around her small body, only the top of her head and the ruddy brown of her hair exposed. 

You smile at the sight. Once you had taken her as your second Cleo had informed you that she would be sleeping with you, sharing the hut and then promptly dropped her off in front of you, a large pack by her feet and a beaming, toothy grin on her face. You’d been apprehensive at first, unsure and anxious, but it had been fine. You even came to enjoy and appreciate the company she provided, especially during the nights when your thoughts would drift to the past. She would wake you gently then, her small hand on your shoulder, grounding you and comforting you as you fell fitfully back into a slumber.

And it’s with that thought that you pull on your clothing and bend down next to her and croon words of _good_ _morning_ and _it’s time to get up, Yasmin,_ and, not unexpectedly you’re answered by a sleepy, tired _no, not yet,_ as you gently coax her into wakefulness. You’re happy to indulge her. You think there will come a time where she must be more than sleepy _no’s_ and _not yet’s_ but for now you’re happy to just let her be the child she is. So you don’t rush her into waking, merely sit and brush her head softly until she wakes.

Today though you find, to your shock as you exit the hut, that the ground is covered in a thick layer of white, cold _something_. Snow you realise as you bend down in wonder, fingers tracing patterns through the snow. You’d seen vids on the Ark that had snow in them, but you never thought you would get the chance to really experience it. Your quiet reverie is broken by a shriek of excitement and a blur of red brown as Yasmin comes bounding out from besides you and flings herself into the snow and you laugh, perhaps the first true laugh you’ve had in months and it feels good, it feels liberating and you think that maybe you should do it more often. And so you too give chase to her as she runs scooping snow up into her hands and flinging it to villagers as they pass by and they too in turn return with their own well aimed shots.

You don’t think you will get much done today.

 

* * *

 

That night Yasmin laughs at you as you sit far too close to the raging fire, warm furs draped over your shivering, soaked body. You think you’re never going to roll in snow again and it is most definitely not soft, and not all like what you imagined from the vids, let alone the icy cold that still clings to you. 

And perhaps for the first time in a long while your sleeping mind doesn’t wander to the past, content to just be in the present.

 

* * *

 

You see Cleo often throughout the days, she waves in passing, shares kind words with Yasmin - she too seems happy that Yasmin has found something she can apply herself to. And you think you find it strange every time you see a smile fall across Cleo’s face, eyes bright or when you hear her laugh, rich and full. You think you should feel anger or resentment when you look at her, face so similar. But you don’t, not really. 

It’s not until you walk past the training grounds and stop to see Cleo sparring with a younger second, when she is struck on the side of her leg and she falls to the ground, clutching at her thigh, the young second gaping in shock frozen in place, only for Cleo to start laughing and stand easily, ruffling the young boy’s hair affectionately, all the while a scowl firmly on his face. 

You think you understand now, with _her_ it had always been passive, stoic and controlled expressions, words of battle and of tense discussion, life and death always hanging between you both, but with Cleo it’s different, her face the same but you can see past it, see a life of laughter, freedom and emotions freely expressed. So maybe, just maybe you start to realise that it’s not _her_ you feel the most anger at, maybe _she_ isn’t the one who you need to confront. 

Your thoughts are broken as you feel a body step besides you, and you turn to find Cleo looking your way, chest heaving from her long sparring session. You smile at her then, and murmur a greeting, eyes flicker over her body, legs strapped in pants, fur covered and warm to help hold back the chill of the winter cold, her arms are bare though, her jacket laying discarded somewhere along the edge of the training grounds, face flushed red from the exercise. Your eyes are drawn to the vine tattoo that winds its way down her right arm and tucks up and behind and into her shirt - you think it must join the tattoo prominently displayed over her scalp and you wonder if she has more. She looks good you think, muscles defined, years of use helping to carve out a strong, lovely- 

You shake your head, clearing your mind of wandering thoughts.

“You should train sometime, Clarke,” you hear her say, “It is important, good for you,” and you look up at her, her eyes twinkling as she continues, “it will give you a strong body,” you blush. 

“Maybe I will,” comes your answer. 

 

* * *

 

It’s been a couple of days but you find yourself following closely behind Cleo, Yasmin in tow, as you stride towards the weapon’s rack that sits at the edge of the training ground. Arriving there, a myriad of weapons, all lethal, rest across it. Large, heavy, deadly swords, some broad and capable of crushing a mans skull, others thin and razor sharp, all the easier to pierce through thin gaps in armour. There’s even war hammers and axes that to your untrained eye look just as dangerous for the wielder as they would be for the unlucky recipient. With an audible gulp you think you wouldn’t last more than a few seconds facing any one of these weapons that you gaze upon.

Cleo reaches out and grasps a sword, edge dulled but still deadly, the blade only just shorter than your arm. She turns to you then, sword held comfortably in her hand, gaze pensive as she looks from you to the sword and then back before she shakes her head, returning the sword to the rack. 

You’d feel insulted, slighted and maybe even a little embarrassed when she instead hands you a wooden sword, clearly made for children. But you don’t, if only for the fact that you imagine the many different ways you could have accidentally impaled yourself on the weapon, or removed a body part you were rather fond of. So you accept the proffered training weapon, cheeks tinged a faint red.

 

* * *

 

It isn’t until you hit yourself square in the face with the wooden sword for the third time that you throw the weapon down and flop back with an exasperated growl. You lay on the ground arms and legs sprawled around you gasping for breath, nose throbbing painfully. 

“You have killed yourself again, Clarke,” Cleo chuckles, looking down at you, her own sword held easily in her hand, “Perhaps the sword is not for you,” she finishes a smile gracing her face.

You feel Yasmin kneel down besides you, waving her small hand in front of your eyes, “konkushon?” she asks worriedly the word falling sloppily from her mouth, but you can’t help but smile, a small spark of pride filling your chest at her attempt to diagnose any injuries you may have suffered for the third time in the last hour - even if you can work on her pronunciation. You shake your head to tell her you’re fine, far too exhausted to voice anything right now with the way your lungs burn as you gulp in lungfuls of sweet, sweet oxygen.

“What do you think, Yasmin?” Cleo leans down now, hand resting atop Yasmin’s head, and whispers conspiratorially “Maybe Clarke should try a different weapon.” At this Yasmin turns to look at the weapon’s rack, frown firmly in place, before looking back to Cleo and then down to you, expression pensive, giving the question perhaps a little too much thought and importance.  

“Clarke is not good with a sword,” she exasperates, hands now firmly on her hips, mulling over the dilemma she is faced with, her bottom lip tucked between her teeth. 

You laugh at that though, and roll your eyes, and you smile up at her “I figured as much,” you manage to wheeze out.

She continues for a moment longer, chewing her bottom lip before her face quickly breaks out in a radiant smile at having solved the problem in her mind, and she’s off with a scamper, running over to the weapons rack only to return moments later. You sit up now and look to Cleo before turning once again to Yasmin to see what she deems suitable for your lacking skills. Curiosity is quickly replaced by something else altogether, “A knife?” you ask incredulously, face red with embarrassment, and you think - how can a knife do you any good against an axe or a war hammer or a broad sword, plus, really Yasmin, a knife? You didn’t think you were that bad. 

But you did hit yourself in the face three times you hear a voice in the recesses of your mind whisper. 

Maybe Yasmin’s suggested weapon has merit.

But, you hear laughter and turn to see Cleo shaking her head, “Not a knife, Clarke, a dirk,” 

“Sha, Clarke! You are good with a knife already, you showed me how to cut bandages and clean wounds with a small blade, you are already very good!” Yasmin rushes to add, toothy smile firmly in place, “You can stitch wounds too! And that means you have good hands to hold a dirk, it is only a bit longer than a knife!” she demonstrates this by holding up her hand, two fingers close together to help you visualise the difference in length. 

“Oh,” that sounds.. not too bad, and actually well thought out, “Ok, a dirk,” You smile at Yasmin then and she smiles back, happy and full of cheer. 

“Perhaps you can show Clarke the best way to use a dirk,” Cleo encourages, looking to Yasmin.

“I will!” she responds all too enthusiastically. 

You rise to your feet as you watch with a smile on your face as she bounds towards the weapons rack once again to retrieved another dirk. You’re quite fond of Yasmin you find yourself thinking.

 

* * *

 

You find that you’re much better with a dirk than with a sword, the blade quick and sure in your hands. But Cleo ends up taking over your training for the rest of the afternoon after Yasmin became far too excited in her demonstrations of the best way to stab a person, leaving you with a knick on your arm and an admonished Yasmin sitting by the sidelines. But you don’t mind.

You find you like this routine that develops, wake up early and try to wake Yasmin. Your mornings are dominated by lessons you have with her, even helping out the village healer when extra hands are needed, it’s simple but challenging and you find that you’ve missed this, missed the feeling of helping people. You really only stop for the midday meal served in the village centre, of meats from wild game that the hunters provide, of roots and vegetables and warm breads that are cooked and baked. And your afternoons are spent training with the dirk and Cleo as an instructor, often other warriors and their seconds or other villagers practicing their own rudimentary skills are there - though nothing seems rudimentary to you, not when everyone must know how to _survive_ , Yasmin even joins you - of course she does though, she’s your second now, and she doesn’t seem to mind not being a warrior when she gazes upon them, sees the swords swinging, axes slashing and hammers crushing through the air, not anymore at least. 

And you think could live like this forever, this easy routine that you find yourself in. Thoughts only occasionally turning to the people you left behind, guilt only occasionally rising up and you think that maybe, someday soon you might do something about it. But, 

_Not yet._

 

* * *

 

You break for the midday meal, and arriving at the village centre you find there to be a few dozen unfamiliar faces sitting around the fire, warriors you can tell, all broad shouldered, scarred and tattooed faced, weapons glinting deadly and dangerous in the sunlight. Looking down, you see Yasmin, wide eyed and open mouthed staring in wonderment. As you pass them towards where the food sits spread across a long bench you see Cleo in animated conversation with a tower of a man, barrel chested, hair unruly, face weathered and gaze stern. You feel a tug on your sleeve and you look down at Yasmin, staring straight at the man.

“Rangers,” she hisses, “rangers, Clarke! Look!” pointing straight to the man and you groan and quickly push her hand down, hoping he didn’t just see Yasmin in all her childish innocence ogling him. But, you aren’t so lucky, you see his eyes dart past Cleo and look straight at Yasmin who quickly hides herself behind you, his eyes flicker to you and a smirk appears across his face, you can’t help but blush, just slightly. But, _oh no_ , he’s moving towards you now, and really, no one should be this tall, you peer up at him and gulp.

Stopping in front of you he peers down  his nose, and then kneels, beckoning for Yasmin to step out from behind you. 

“Yongon, your name,” it’s gruff, deep and rumbles in his chest, but you can’t help but think that there is a kindness to him, rich and comforting, even if he looks as though he could crush your skull with a squeeze of his fist.

“Y- Yasmin,” you hear, timid and shy, all traces of wonderment gone from her tone, her face ducked in embarrassment at being addressed. 

“A lovely name,” he smiles then, eyes twinkling, “you are a second?” he asks then, and Yasmin nods, 

“A healer,” you offer, and he bobs his head sagely, hair bouncing with the motion of his head.

“A noble skill,” he replies, Yasmin blushing profusely, “You will keep my rangers and I healthy and fit and living,” he chuckles, clapping her shoulder before standing, sending a friendly nod of his head your way before heading back to Cleo.

After the encounter you sit with food around the fire and listen to Yasmin as she regales stories of rangers, every so often shooting awed looks at the ones sitting close by. She tells you stories of how only the best warriors are chosen to be part of the rangers and how she had once wanted desperately to be one, how stories of their heroics and strength and the battles they fight inspire many.

You’re halfway through a story about a band of rangers who fought against a horde of Reapers when Cleo sits down besides you, smiling softly at the way Yasmin loses herself in the story.

“Tobias likes you,” she smiles, “he said he thought Wanheda would be taller, not as pretty,” and you blush and you don’t miss the way the name Wanheda doesn’t leave you feeling so tense anymore. 

“He seems nice,” you laugh in response, “but scary.” You pause then, think as you chew on a piece of tender meat, “So… rangers, what exactly are they? besides valiant warriors,” you add for Yasmin’s Amusement.

“Some warriors stay and live in their village, but some can be selected to serve with the rangers. They don’t live in villages, but rather have a territory they patrol, always moving, never a place to call home,” Cleo says, and you think of the man you met before the Mountain, who had usurped Anya’s control, and his forces you had fought at the drop ship. 

“I think I met one, a man, bald,” you say, and you look to Cleo for confirmation.

“Tristan, his rangers’ territory is further north, where you fell,”

“Tobias doesn’t seem to lead that many,” You ask, looking at the rangers around you, perhaps only just making thirty.

“This is not all of them, just a handful” Cleo answers, taking in the few around you, “most are outside the village walls, ready to move when needed.”

“So they move about then? Why not have their own village?” at this you hear Yasmin huff and roll her eyes at your seemingly obvious question, you can’t help but to stick your tongue out at her.

“They move about so that they can respond to local threats, sometimes bandits will strike and a village may not have the necessary defences so the rangers will come. They move faster if they don’t have a permanent place,” you nod at this, and you think it makes sense, “They make the majority of Trikru fighting force, able to move quickly and swiftly through the trees to where they are most needed.”   

“Sha! They come when there is trouble, everyone knows you want rangers near when there is danger,” Yasmin jumps in, awe still fixed permanently on her face.

You sit in silence then, Cleo and Yasmin on either side of you enjoying the warmth of the fire. 

But. 

You’re left wondering why Tobias and his rangers are here, at the village, if rangers only come when danger is near.


	3. Chapter 3

You feel yourself become more and more like a grounder with each passing day and less the teenage girl that fell from the sky. You sit now, in the hut you share with Yasmin, as she braids your hair, pulling it this way and that, brows furrowed and tongue between her teeth. You let out a hiss of pain when you feel a particularly sharp tug, only for her to offer a cheery _Moba, Clarke!_ You don’t mind though, you think you would endure anything for Yasmin now. You think that you’re here for her, just as much as she’s here for you and you smile at the thought.

“How many clans are there?” you hear from behind you.

You think for a moment, before responding, “Twelve?” and you hear a muffled _good_ from behind you as Yasmin does… _something_ to your hair, “Aren’t _you_ the second?” you tease, peering over your shoulder, resulting in the braid Yasmin was working on slipping from her hands.

“ _Skrish!_ Stay still, and yes I am but you must know these things. Now do not move,” You’d reprimand Yasmin for her language but you can’t help but laugh, and bask in the comfort that you’ve found yourself in.

“The coalition was formed by Heda,” Yasmin continues, “all twelve clans united under her banner,” 

“All twelve?” you interject dubiously if not only to have something to hold against _her._

“Well, some clans had their own treaties and allied together,” Yasmin chatters away, “but Azgeda-” you hear her scoff “-and Trikru do not like each other,” and at this you can imagine the look of distaste on Yasmin’s round face, but you keep your head forward, if only so she won’t swear again at you ruining her handy work, “but, Trikru, Yujleda and Trishana all were allied together before the coalition,” she finishes - and you think it makes sense, the clans that live mostly among the trees would unite together. 

“Were any allied with Azgeda?” you ask, you’d already gathered that Azgeda was the harshest and perhaps the least well like.

“Sha, Podakru. Though their territory is more water than land, they share borders with Azgeda, and because Podakru shares a border with Ingranrona, Ingranrona was _friendly-”_ and at this, Yasmin sticks her hand out in front of your face and makes quotation marks before returning to her braiding, “- with Azgeda. I think they just didn’t want to worry about Azgeda stealing all their flat land though,” 

“And the others,” you prod,

“Sha, Floukru live on the sea to the east,” and at that Yasmin jerks her hand in the general direction of _east_ causing you to yelp, “Oops, moba, Clarke! And then there is Sankru to the west -No trees there, just sand,” You can hear the disgust in Yasmin’s voice and you let a chuckle escape your lips, “They both tried to stay out of clan fighting, only joining when most others had already decided,” 

“Sounds very complicated,” you joke, but you do think it is all rather fascinating though, all these things you didn’t know while living up in space, blissfully unaware of the turmoil you would find yourself in.

“And it is!” Yasmin enthuses, “the last four are Ouskejon, they live in the cliffs to the west, same as Boudalan, too many rocks and not enough trees, I think, and they were more friendly with us among the trees than they were with Podakru and Ingranrona. There’s Louwoda Kliron too, they live in the valleys past Yujleda. And then there is Delfikru, surrounded by Podakru, Ingranrona and Ouskejon so they are friendly with everyone,” Yasmin finishes. You mull over what she’s said for a while longer, and think you’ll have to get her to explain it again someday, until you feel a gentle tug on your hair, a signal that she’s finished with her braiding. 

 

* * *

 

With hair braided back, clothed in furs and leathers, and a dirk strapped to your thigh, you feel more like a grounder than ever, especially as you now sit atop a horse that is slowly being led by Yasmin around an open field not far from the Village. There’s warriors here too, that you assume are part of Tobias’ ranger detachment manoeuvring their horses through complex formations and drills that leave you feeling much too dizzy as you sit, swaying just a little too much from side to side for your comfort.

“Don’t sway Clarke, you will fall and break an arm!” you hear Yasmin shout from in front of you, having walked further ahead, the horse reins stretching out in front of you, leaving more control in your hands than you might be comfortable with.

“You remember how to fix a splint?” you call back to Yasmin, tone joking - _but you’re not joking, not really -_ you think you might actually need your young second’s services if the horse gives another ungainly lurch. 

“Maybe!”

_You roll your eyes, hard._

 

* * *

 

You think you feel winter coming to a close, the wind no longer holds that biting chill, the frost no longer lingering for as long as it did when you now rise in the morning, even the snow has stopped falling. It almost surprises you, when you realise that it must have been close to 5 months since you walked away and your thoughts turn briefly to those back at Camp Jaha, and you think of your mother, and of Bellamy who you left at the gates, of Octavia and Lincoln and you wonder how Lincoln might be doing now that he disobeyed _her_ orders, you think of Monty and of Jasper as he stared at you, holding Maya’s lifeless body. You'd be lying if you said it didn’t pain you. But it’s different now, you think it is, you _feel_ it is. You think it will always be there though, just under the surface, but no longer burning, no longer simmering, just there. Constant. Something you need to accept. To live with. And you think you have, you think you’ve accepted it, you think you could live with it. 

Soon you think to yourself, soon you’ll go back, just for a visit, just to say that you’re still alive, just for a moment, maybe even to apologise for leaving, but you won’t stay, it’s not home to you, not what you think of as home anyway, you don’t think you ever did. Home was in the stars, long before you came down to the ground and long before things changed. You’ve changed.

You’ll go back.

_Not yet, but, soon._

 

* * *

Yasmin sits before you, delicately suturing cloth together, careful to get the exact movements correct under your watchful eye. You offer her a bite from a piece of meat you have skewered on a fork, a freshly roasted deer, succulent and spiced which she accepts with a grin, juices dribbling down her chin. Hearing a commotion, you turn your head and see a column of warriors ride through the main gates, each sharing the scarred and tattooed appearance you’ve come to expect from the many warriors you've come to recognise. Strapped to each horse are large packs, all full and stretched to their limits.

You didn’t notice at first, always assuming Tobias was rotating his rangers in and out of the village, granting them a respite from the harshness that you know the ground can be, but as you look out at the riders and the village you see far more than the usual number moving about, noise from the training ground louder than you remember it ever being. You even think you can hear the sounds of men and women moving about outside the village walls.

You see Cleo get up from opposite you by the fire pit to greet these warriors, hushed words shared then clasping, who you presume to be the leader, by the forearm before pointing down towards the training grounds before she turns and walks back your way.

“Why are all these warriors here?” You ask, taking in the commotion that is now clear to you, that consumes the village, tents erected, campfires burning, warriors moving to and fro. 

“Bandits,” Cleo responds, “coming across the border from Azgeda.”

You hear a snort and turning to your left you see Tobias striding towards you from the direction of the training grounds, “Bandits,” he spits, “there are no bandits coming from Azgeda, not in the numbers we see attacking the northern border.” 

You’re about to respond, to question what he means when Cleo cuts in, “Queen Nia is too ruthless to allow bandits to exist in such numbers within Azgeda lands, to roam so freely across the border,” she looks angry, the mere thought of bandits from Azgeda souring her mood, “Very few would risk causing trouble in Azgeda lands. It is a harsh clan.”  

“But this far into Trikru lands?” you ask again, resting a hand on Yasmin’s shoulder as she stills, listening intently to the conversation flowing back and forth.

“They sneak through in small numbers, then regroup and strike villages along the border, Heda has ordered extra warriors to the north,” Cleo responds, “these warriors are from the southern Trikru villages, they will stay here, near enough to respond in a few day’s hard ride if they are needed, many are at other villages nearby too."

“Many detachments of rangers have already been sent forward,” Tobias adds, thumbing over the handle of his axe as it rests against his shoulder.

You mull over what you’ve been told. If bandits are dealt with brutally in Azgeda then how are they crossing over? From what you’ve been told, Nia seems the kind of ruler to not sit idly by as her own villages are pillaged by these criminals, they must have taken everything from Azgeda villages you think, if they are now crossing over into Trikru lands, but that _can’t_ be right. Who, then, would be able to carry out these attacks across the border? Not another clan you think, the coalition stops things like that happening. Who else, with the numbers and skills to strike swiftly from Azgeda and into Trikru lands…

“They’re not bandits,” you conclude, worry churning your stomach.

“No, they are not,” Tobias answers, gruff and angry, frown securely in place.

 

* * *

 

You often find yourself moving to and from the village and to the warriors that have set up camp outside the walls, offering any medical help that is required - something you’ve come to notice is almost hourly with the way their training occurs, brutal and violent. You’ve even come to recognise repeat offenders who you patch up, sending them off with words of warning, asking, pleading for them to not pull their stitches again. It doesn’t work. 

What did you expect?

Normally Yasmin would accompany you, ever the loyal second, taking in as much as possible, but today you let her rest, only to find that Tobias had stolen her away to the training grounds. You really hope she won’t become one of your patients come nightfall, but your hopes aren’t high.

It’s at that moment you find Cleo resting by a tree on the edge of the clearing near the village, arms bare, red faced and sweaty, the usually shaved sides of her head a short fuzz, and a gash across her forehead.  

“Get beat up?” you ask as you sit down besides her, turning to watch as the other warriors slash and block with their weapons, throw bodies and ram each other repeatedly. 

“I do not get _beat up_ ,” is the response, her gaze stern but she’s not angry, not by the way her tone sings just slightly, the way her eyes twinkle just a bit in the sunlight. 

It’s a nice shade of green you find yourself thinking. It always was. 

“Sure you don’t,” You take in the gash on her forehead though, blood already drying around the edges, it doesn’t look too serious - probably why she didn’t come looking for medical attention. But still, “want me to look at that?” you ask.

“It is not serious,” It’s quiet, perhaps bashful but she smiles when she sees the concern in your eyes, “It is easier to let it dry,” she continues, “I have not had much time to rest, not with the many warriors coming through the village,” 

“Explains the hair,” you say, smiling as she ruefully rubs at the stubble.

“Yes, it does.”

“You should rest though, it’s important and you deserve it,” it comes out sincere, and you find yourself meaning it, maybe more than you realise.

You sit in silence then, allowing the cool breeze to wash over you, you think you can spot small buds on tree branches now, colour slowly but surely returning to the forest after the cold winter. 

Taking her profile in, you can’t help but notice just how different Cleo is, despite the visual similarities. You’d noticed the way she laughed and was free with her emotions, but there’s something else you think, a lack of something, or maybe the presence of something, barely there but you think you see it in the way she interacts with those around her.

You clear your throat, unsure how to broach what’s on your mind. But she seems to sense you have things to say, things to ask by the way she turns to face you, eyebrow raised slightly, “you may ask,” she smirks. Perhaps she already knows.

“The Commander,” you start, “Alexandria,” you continue and she hums in response, “Lexa,” you finish and her lips quirk up into a smile,

“I do know my sister is the Commander and that her name is Alexandria and that she prefers Lexa,” comes the laughed response, you roll your eyes, but one revelation is new to you - _her_ preference is Lexa.  

That wasn't what you meant to say though, so you try again, “You never mention her, not since we first met,” and she nods, worries her lip a bit before turning her body to more fully face yours.

“She was chosen, much younger than Yasmin is now, to train in Polis, our capital. I only have small memories of us together as children,” she pauses, expression thoughtful, wistful, “they are good memories,” she finishes. “I still see her though, not often, she is always busy. Heda has many things to do, and to visit family is not one of them.”

“What about your parents?” but maybe you already know the answer, and Cleo looks to you sadly, before shaking her head mournfully, and you understand.

You leave the silence to linger between you both for a while. 

Eventually, though, you break the silence, “When was the last time you saw each other?” you ask.

Cleo pauses to think, to recall just briefly before she answers, “Not since just before you fell, she was touring through the southern part of Trikru lands when you arrived.” You nod at that, “she stopped for an afternoon, just for a moment, before she moved on,” Taking in Cleo’s expression now, you think she looks saddened, a look of longing rests in her eyes, it sits there, comfortably and familiar in its place.

“Do you miss her?” you ask yet again, voice soft, afraid to disturb the quiet that seems to have fallen around you both.   

“There are things I must accept, even if I wish they weren’t so,” she says, “and losing my sister to the role of Heda is something I might not like, but I accept it,” She pauses then, for a long drawn out moment. You see her breathe in. You see her hold it for just a moment and then she’s releasing it in one long, shaky breath before she continues, 

“I can not miss what I did not have,” It’s pained and broken, full of longing and loss and of love that never really had the chance, the opportunity, the nourishment to grow, and you think that terribly, terribly heartbreaking, “But perhaps I can miss what could have been,” she continues, “had things been different.”

You reach out and grasp her hand then, sure that any words you could give wouldn’t really help. You think your company is more than enough though, from the way Cleo squeezes your hand in turn, smile soft on her lips. 

And you think to yourself, 

_Perhaps even Lexa longs for things that could have been, had things been different._

_Don’t you?_

 

* * *

 

You leave the quiet of the afternoon and the pleasantness of the shaded tree when Cleo is called back to the warriors, to further injure themselves you think and you’re happy to leave, they can drag themselves back to you and the healer’s hut you think as you cast one last look over your shoulder at Cleo’s retreating figure, and then head back to the village, intent on finding Yasmin, hopefully in one piece.

You, thankfully, find her injury free and smiling, sitting by the fire in the village centre, cheerfully eating a sweetened biscuit - but to your shock and annoyance there is no Tobias, and Yasmin is trading insults with a rowdy group of rangers, all roaring heartily at the young second as she throws impressive, colourful insults their way. 

“Yu laik nomon joka!” You hear Yasmin cheerfully spit at a burly ranger, short and stocky, large beard covering a vast swathe of his chest. You see Yasmin open her mouth, ready to hurl another insult, clearly spurred on by the cheers of the rangers around her when you clear your throat - highly unimpressed.

The rangers quickly make way for you, eyes widened, most turning their gaze down to the ground, a few even scuffle off quickly before they can be pinned by your gaze.

“What’s going on here. And where. is. Tobias,” you hiss, voice deadly cold, glare icy. And, to your surprise the burly ranger quickly pushes Yasmin in front of him with a gulp. 

“The second started it, Wanheda, And Tobias said you wanted us to watch her,” he quickly stammers, while taking a large step back. 

Yasmin opens her mouth, clearly ready to defend herself, but you ignore it, shoot the rangers a final glare and grab her by the arm and drag her off to your hut. 

 _Really, Tobias. Really? One job, you had one job._  

You certainly won’t be letting him watch Yasmin again.

  

* * *

 

 

It’s the next day but you’re still slightly annoyed at Tobias for teaching Yasmin to swear - even if he wasn’t directly responsible, but words of admonishment ring through your mind sounding just like your mother. You grimace at the thought, but really, you should have expected something like that to happen. At least Yasmin wasn’t hurt. That you can be thankful for. 

Your thoughts are interrupted then, when Yasmin passes you a suturing kit, freshly wrapped from the bundle she was working on, her expression slightly timid as she eyes you.

“You are angry with me,” she says, eyes cast to the ground, her feet kicking ever so slightly at having disappointed you, but…

“No, no, Yasmin, not at you,” you quickly rush, you don’t think you could ever be angry at Yasmin, couldn’t bear to see her upset. You quickly drop what you’re doing and wrap her in an embrace, “I’m just annoyed at Tobias, that’s all,” you smile at her then, and catch her gaze, making sure she sees the truth.

“Does that mean I can say those words still,” She asks, a glint in her eyes - cheeky little-

“No,” it comes out stern, but she sees that it lacks any real venom, and she smiles, shrugs and accepts your reprimand with a cheery _ok_. 

You think she’s going to continue to swear when you aren’t present.

_Damn Tobias._

 

* * *

 

You continue taking inventory in the healers hut for the rest of the day, conversation flowing easily between you and Yasmin, sometimes it’s you explaining medical procedures to her, but most of the time it’s her telling you stories she’s overheard from the rangers and other Trikru warriors as they filter through the village. One in particular catches your attention when you hear her mention _Heda._

 _“_ Heda _,”_ she repeats, looking up from where she was folding bandages, “the warrior said they were delivering messages to Heda, and that she is near,” Yasmin continues, thoughtfully, trying to recall what she had overheard, “she has been near for days now, seeing to the many war camps around this area.” 

“Oh,” you aren’t sure why knowing she's close makes your stomach twist in knots.

Yasmin again interrupts your thoughts, continuing with the story she heard,

“… and the warrior said that Heda had been looking for Wanheda and then when Cleo found you she began telling Heda that you were here and that-”

“What?” you interrupt, and Yasmin blinks at you confused, “Cleo’s been doing what?” you repeat again.

“Oh… uhh….” Yasmin pauses, then rushes out in a shaky breath, “The warrior said that Cleo had been sending messages to Heda about you,” and she finishes, eyes widening as she looks at you, your breathing coming in a bit more ragged, a bit more laboured and your fists clenching ever so tightly around the sheet you had been folding.

It angers you, but you can’t quite put your finger on it, don’t quite know why 

_But you do know._

 

* * *

 

“You’ve been spying on me for _her_?!” You growl, barging into Cleo’s hut. She looks up in surprise, blade to her scalp, midway through shaving the side of her head, “For months?!”

“Yes,” She stands, places the blade carefully behind her on the table and turns to you, eyes steady and unwavering, “She is Heda. And I obey her orders.” Gone is the wistful longing on her face from the previous day.

“Why?” it comes out a growl, anger still bubbling, threatening to spill over.

“You are Wanheda,” She says simply, moving to step forward. 

“If s _he_ wanted to know about me, she should have come looking for me then, instead of sending _you_ to do her dirty work,” you grit out. But Cleo merely looks at you carefully in response. 

“You are still angry, Clarke,” 

 _No shit_ you think, “I left because I wanted to be alone, to get away from everything and everyone. Including _her,”_ You retort anger rising _,_ but somewhere deep down you realise now that, when confronted by the truth that _she_ wanted to find you, that perhaps you weren’t quite over the pain and loss of what happened at the foot of the Mountain, that maybe you thought of her as something more than transient and ephemeral, not just a moment, not a flash flood of emotion but a steady stream that winds and meanders and wends it way through you. Something permanent that could grow and become something _more_. 

But she walked away and left you broken and hurt. And she thinks she can keep tabs on you?

“You are angry, but she did the right thing, for her people, Clarke” Cleo says evenly, “A hand full, for hundreds,”   

“But not for _my_ people,” your eyes flash, and glare hard into hers. 

“Sometimes things happen, Clarke,” Cleo says, voice loud and firm but not unkind, “You may not like what happens, you may not understand why they happen. But you must accept it. To not do so would eat you alive.”

You aren’t sure if she’s talking about spying on you, or if she’s talking about the Mountain. Maybe both. And, you think either way, both are a betrayal. 

You thought you had a trust built between you two, of shared _somethings_ that linger and build. Maybe betrayal runs in the family. 

But, you’re too stubborn to think clearly right now. 

“That’s bullshit, and you know it!” You retort, your own anger rising once again, not quite ready to give up, her own head cocked to the side ever so slightly.

And so you step forward, crowding her, forcing her back with the power of your glare. 

“She betrayed me!” You continue, voice rising in volume, trying to look past _her_ face, “She left me at the mountain! And I did things, I. Killed. _Everyone_!” 

You’re yelling now, letting months of pent up rage seep out, your chest heaving. You don’t realise you’ve backed _her_ into the desk until you hear a thump as she collides with it firmly. But, you aren’t seeing the shaved sides of her scalp and the weaving tattoo that adorns the side of her scalp. All you see is a blood smeared face, war paint dripping and powerful, eyes green and beseeching you to understand that she made the decision with her head and not her heart. 

You’re seeing _her,_ and it infuriates you, makes your blood boil, makes your heart beat erratically in your chest. 

And you _feel_. 

You feel all these emotions you've kept locked away, deep down and now they’ve come, crushing and crashing to the surface so you shove _Lexa_ , hard in the chest once, step forward again hand firmly on her shoulder and you move in closer, and closer, and you take in the green of her eyes, widened in shock, and you take in the curve of her lips, parted in surprise and you take in the line of her jaw and the way her chin juts out just that little bit, and you take in the way her throat bobs visibly, and you see her pulse as it beats frantically beneath the surface of her skin. 

And something changes in this moment, you can’t quite put your finger on it but everything just seems to. fall. into. place. And you accept it.

And so you step forward once more, and you lean in, pressing up against her, and you see _her_ and you feel _her,_ breath catching just slightly as your lips meet hers, just barely, and you angle your head just slightly, applying the barest amount of pressure, and you-

And you stop. 

Looking down you see her hand resting firmly against your heaving chest, “Clarke,” she warns, and your eyes snap up to hers. 

But you only see Cleo. 

So you flee, and run. And you don’t look back.


	4. Chapter 4

 

_You feel tired, more than you think you’ve ever felt. The winter season leaving you drained, and the Azgeda bandits a constant, annoying, juvenile thorn in your side. You can’t quite figure out why Azgeda is causing problems for the Coalition. You don’t know._

_But you do. It is always the same with her._

_Since the fall of the Mountain you haven’t rested, haven’t slept, not properly, thoughts never straying far from that one thing that itches and writhes and buries itself into the recesses of your mind._

_You now find yourself, back straight, shoulders squared, striding aimlessly, purposefully through the war camp that has sprung up, warriors greeting you with soft murmurs and you return their greetings with a nod of your head. You don’t realise you’ve found your way to your tent until a guard greets you, moving to step aside._

_But you don’t enter. Something tells you to turn and to cast your gaze just once more across the war camp. So you do._

_And you see her._

_You see her, a tightly wrapped bundle tucked snug under her arm, body clad in the dark brown and green furs and leathers you come to expect from a Trikru warrior, a deadly blade strapped to her thigh, one across her back._

_She looks well you think. Tired maybe, but from exercise you realise and not the demons that you live with. And you think she looks healthy and strong. And you think, more importantly, she looks alive._

_But, she must sense you gazing upon her, you see her head turning and her eyes roaming the war camp, searching and searching until they land upon you. And just for a moment you think you feel a barely there spark, a soft rumble in the core of your being as blue meets green. You think you smile then, it must be faint, but you think you feel your lips quirk up at the corners, and your cheeks twitch just a bit, just a fraction._

_And you see her eyes sparkle as the light hits them in just the right way. You’ve missed them._

_You’ve missed her._

_But then she turns, hearing her name being called and you too fade and slip back into the chaos that is now your existence._

 

* * *

 

To say that things between you and Cleo were awkward would be a monumental understatement. You don’t think you _actually_ called her Lexa, don’t think you actually voiced any of the thoughts you had running through your mind, but regardless, you had pushed her and pushed up _against_ her and done some exceptionally stupid things. One thing in particular and you grimace at the thought, and you can’t help but wonder what Lexa’s expression would be, incredibly amusing probably, if she were to have walked in on you and Cleo, with Cleo’s face in your hands and you kissing her passionately. 

You shake your head, clearing your thoughts,

You realise you were angry. You were hurt. You were _feeling_.

But you don’t blame Cleo, you think you can even accept what she did, what she had to do to. You don’t think you can hold it against her for sending reports to Heda about you, not really - but maybe you can imagine punching them _both_ in the face next time you’re at the training grounds - that never ceases to remove some frustrations you’ve had burning through you _._

And you think you understand, too. You aren’t stupid. Stubborn? Sure, but you’re smart enough to really know what’s going on in your mind by now, after all this time. But still, it gives you pause, makes you really think, really consider the _why_ of the situation. 

So you do. 

You stoke the flame that burns softly in the middle of your hut, gaze flickering over to Yasmin’s sleeping form, hair still sticking out wildly, and you smile for a moment before your mind drifts from situation to situation you’ve had, memories shifting back and forth of experiences shared, of lives lost. You think of being trapped, alone with Lexa, a raging beast and a sword the only thing preventing you both from being torn, limb from limb, and that infuriating, selfless, silly, sacrificial offer to give herself up, for you to let go and leave her. And you snort.

_You selfless fucking idiot._

What’s that they say though? The one’s that are important are the ones that can hurt you the most? You guess it’s true.

 

* * *

 

You now make sure Yasmin is with you almost constantly if you have to go anywhere for more than a few moments - a repeat of the fiasco that is Tobias and his rangers not on the table. You know you aren’t her mother, can never replace her father, but you can’t help but care and feel responsible, and perhaps you can be a sister as well as a mentor for your young second. You know she cares for you too. 

You smile then, as you watch her finish a suture, before wiping the wound carefully and dressing it before she smiles up at the warrior, a man, maybe not much older than yourself, face still showing the signs of youth. He smiles then, inspects the bandages Yasmin has wrapped and then leaves with an affectionate ruffling of her hair. 

“Good work,” you smile at her, and she ducks her head, embarrassed and a slight blush to her cheeks but still, you see the pride in her eyes and you’re sure it’s reflected in your own, “You might not need me much longer,” you joke. 

She rolls her eyes then, a laugh and then a flick of her hair, “Maybe _you_ should be the second,” and you laugh too, all too happy to continue the easy banter that flows back and forth between you both as you continue to patch up the near constant stream of warriors that trickle into the healers hut, all sporting slight, superficial wounds of various shapes and sizes.

Your afternoon continues like this for a while longer, a few hours you think, by the movement of the sun and you think you might be able to finish early, the number of warriors requiring medical aid slowing down when you’re interrupted by the door banging open. 

“Wanheda!” A women, dark skinned and fierce eyed, dressed in light leather armour, hair clinging to her face, sweaty and windswept calls, head poked into the room, “You’re needed at the camp outside the walls,” it’s urgent, breathless from her run here. You glance at Yasmin then, to see that she is already rushing to pack any medical supplies that might be needed before tossing the bag to you, then you’re both out the door, following swiftly behind the woman as she details what has happened.

“We’ve got wounded arriving on horseback, some are serious but not near death, but we thought you’d be able to help,” she explains, quickly retying her hair back where thick brown strands had broken free. You nod your understanding, beginning to go over steps, thinking over best ways to treat the number of injuries you might be faced with, all the while wondering what went wrong during their training. 

You realise the war camp - and truly it is a war camp now - is much larger than you had initially thought when you break through the trees and come to the open clearing. Seemingly overnight more tents have sprung up, fires burn in their pits and warriors mill about, some leisurely in their pace, but others weaving in and out and between tents carrying supplies and what you notice to be bandages, reddened and soaked in blood. You turn to Yasmin, to make sure she’s ok, to make sure she is still with you and you see her eyes wide with shock and you worry for only a brief second before she catches your eye, grits her teeth and clenches her jaw. 

At the moment, you’re too focused on Yasmin and trying to understand why so many might be wounded to worry about too much else. 

If you weren’t so focused though, you would have noticed the familiar tent that stood out from the rest, erected in the middle of the war camp.

 

* * *

 

The woman leads you to a large tent, larger than you’ve seen in a long, long time and she quickly pulls the flaps open, revealing a familiar sight, rows upon rows of beds, some already occupied by bloodied warriors, some with clear gashes across their bodies, some you think with broken bones and a few with arrow shafts protruding from thighs and torsos and shoulders.  

You think back to when the rangers arrived, and realise just how near danger you might actually be.

The woman quickly ushers you to the closest warrior, another woman, an arrow protruding from her thigh, fletching a dull, common grey, her teeth grit in a tense grimace. She greets you then, a murmured _Wanheda,_ before you’re pushing her back and down to lay flat on the bed, quickly rummaging through your pack.

You give a warning of _this might hurt_ before you start cutting away her pants leg, revealing a jagged puncture wound that seeps blood, but luckily, you don’t think it’s infected, not yet anyway. You’re glad to find that the arrow went clean through, the tip sticking out the other side of her thigh and you carefully prod and poke around muttering words of apology when the warrior hisses.

You think - and hope - that it hasn’t severed an artery, you think it hasn’t or she wouldn’t be awake right now, but regardless, you worry, just a bit, “Hold her down,” you say, looking up at the warrior who escorted you here, still lingering by the foot of the bed, you turn to Yasmin then about to tell her what you need, but she’s already holding out the suturing kit, clean bandages laid out and healing paste ready. You give her a warm smile.

“The name’s Dala,” Your would-be assistant says to you, hands firmly holding your patient by the shoulders, and you throw her a quick smile in recognition. 

“This is going to hurt,” you say, before quickly snapping the end of the arrow off, removing the fletching. You pause then, glance to the wounded warrior who nods for you to proceed, jaw clenched tightly.

You continue working on your patient after you’ve pried the arrow from her thigh, cleaning carefully before applying healing past directly to the wound. You’re partway through suturing, Yasmin providing fresh bandages when needed when Dala speaks again, “You’re lucky,” you look up at her to see she is holding up the arrow head, tip to her nose, “the arrow wasn’t poisoned.” 

Your patient snorts then, “They are cowards, Azgeda, too afraid to attack us outright so they sneak and hide and pretend to be Bandits,” 

“Why not use poison?” you interject, curiosity spiking. 

“They can deny that it’s Azgeda warriors attacking us, to avoid bringing Coalition law against them,” Dala answer anger colouring her voice, her eyes dark and troubled, “Queen Nia’s playing games, that much is certain,”

You mull over what you’ve been told as you continue your suturing.

 

* * *

 

 

 

The rest of the day is spent in the healers tent, Yasmin a great help, even handling the less serious patients on her own. Dala also stays close, providing what little aid she can as you move from patient to patient. Conversation, you find, flows easily between the both of you. She tells you she is part of Tobias’ rangers and has been serving with him for a number of years, that she enjoys it, despite not being able to see her parents often, who live in a village further south, but who are both thankfully still living. 

“This whole Azgeda-bandit thing, It’s more serious, isn’t it?” you speak out, while cleaning a gash that is - funnily enough - across a mans backside, and you can’t help but chuckle despite the situation, ignoring the man’s futile grumbles. 

“Yeah, it’s bad,” Dala sighs, shaking her head, “the villages further north are already full of wounded, most only lightly like we saw here today, and can return to battle soon, but the bandits attack in smaller numbers and so they can keep striking swiftly, even if we outnumber them greatly. And Heda can not go into Azgeda lands to deal with the problem at the _source_ ,” you don’t miss the emphasis she puts on that, “without any proof that it is Azgeda, and not just lowly bandits,” 

“What about the other clans?” you ask then, “won’t they be willing to help?” 

“Yes,” your patient says in reply, wincing slightly as you tug one end of his wound closed, “Yujleda and Trishana are already bringing their own warriors up to help _contain_ , they would launch a suicide attack on Azgeda merely on Heda’s orders,” 

 _Well, that’s certainly strong ties_ you think.

“Sha, and Trikru would too, but that is not how the Coalition works,” Yasmin pipes up, eager to join in on the conversation, 

“Yeah, and the other clans won’t tolerate an attack of any kind, not without evidence or unless attacked first,” Dala finishes with a sigh. 

“So, I guess we’re screwed then?” You don’t see what else could be done, not without hard evidence of Azgeda involvement. 

Plus _,_ you don’t even know _why_ they’d be willing to antagonise the Coalition.

You hear Yasmin grumble then, and even your patient makes a noise of disgust, before he adds “Azgeda attack with no honour, I would kill them all. Cowards, every single one of them,” 

Dala laughs at that though, before saying, “Is that why you are lying face down, with your ass in the air waiting for the mighty Wanheda to heal you?” 

And you let out a bark of laughter, immensely thankful you’d just finished suturing his wound or you probably would have stuck the needle somewhere else entirely as you laugh, head thrown back, wiping away the tears of laughter with the back of your hand.

You’re glad, that despite everything that is happening, you can still find levity in the situation. 

And in situations like this? You think that life really is about more than just surviving.

 

* * *

 

You sit in your hut now, the fire casting a warming glow, your arms sore, shoulders and back aching from having spent the majority of the day hunched over patients, but it’s a discomfort you welcome, knowing that you’ve helped people, no matter how trivial it may seem. 

Yasmin sits in front of you, a flask of warm drink in her hand and a slice of bread in the other, topped with a range of cheeses and slices of meat. You bring a brush through her hair every so often, trying to tame the wild strands into a presentable braid - every other brush stroke a little harder as you try and remove the knots you find.

“Clarke,” it’s soft, softer than you’re used to and your hand stills as you hum your response to Yasmin, she waits a moment as her thoughts catch up with her before she makes a noncommittal noise in the back of her throat then scoots around to face you, careful as not to spill her drink or drop the food in her hands and you look at her, eyebrows raised in question.

“Today…” she starts, her brows furrows and nose crinkled in thought, “…no one died,” and you nod, thinking you know where this might be going, “But…” you can tell she’s struggling for the right words to say, of how to voice what’s on her mind, but you let her think for a moment longer, you even think back to when you had had the same conversation with your Mother after a particularly long day in the Ark infirmary, “What do you do?” Yasmin asks quietly, “when you can’t save someone? Even if you want to, but they are too hurt?”

You think about what to say, sure that it will stay with Yasmin for the rest of her life, you owe it to her to give her the truth, even if it’s brutal and unkind.

“There are things healers must accept” you start, gaze soft and tender, taking in Yasmin’s own, eyes bright and large in the fire lit glow. “Things everyone must accept,” here you pause and take a calming breath, and think for just a moment, “a baker must accept that sometimes he will burn a loaf of bread,” it’s a crude analogy, but you think Yasmin understands where you’re going, “and warriors,” you pause, thinking of Yasmin’s father, and you see her lips tremble just slightly, “they must accept that there is danger, and that their fight may end one day,” you reach out now and cradle Yasmin’s face in your hand, thumb brushing away a lone tear as it falls down her cheek and she leans in to the touch, just a bit, but just enough, “and healers,” you smile softly, warmly at her, “we must accept, even if we try very, _very_ hard, that sometimes we can’t save everyone,” you feel wetness pooling in the corner of your own eyes as you think of your own father, of Wells and of Finn, of everything else that had happened since you landed on the ground and how you had to accept them in order to move on, and to understand them in order to just be yourself again. And you think you understand now, so when you blink and you feel the tears fall you don’t hide them. And when Yasmin reaches out and brushes away your own tears you lean into her touch, holding her small hand in yours, “We can not save everyone, Yasmin, and it might make us feel sadness, or even anger” you add softly, and she looks at you with all the childish innocence that she possesses, “but we have to accept that things happen, that are out of our control. Do you understand?” and she nods softly, “and when things hurt, so very, very much,” you continue,

“It means we care.”

 

* * *

 

Yasmin turned around sometime later that night, you still have her cradled in between your legs, arms wrapped in a protective embrace and her back resting against your chest, faint mumbles falling from her lips as she dreams quietly. You couldn’t bear to move her, to disturb her and get her into bed, not after such a hard day. So you’re happy just to sit, the fire enough to warm you both for the time being. 

Her hair tickles your chin slightly, and you can’t help but feel a little pride in the fact that you were able to at least get most of it going in the one direction. You chuckle quietly as you realise your efforts will have to be repeated in the morning. But you don’t mind, you even look forward to it. You hear Yasmin mumble a bit louder in her sleep, and you kiss the top of her head and tighten your embrace just a bit, and lull her back, further into her peaceful sleep. You aren’t willing to give this up, not yet. So you sit. And think, and your thoughts drift to Camp Jaha once again, of your mother, of Bellamy, Octavia and Lincoln, Raven and Monty and Jasper. But this time you find it comforting and you smile. 

You think that maybe it’s time. You think you’re ready to go back.

Your thoughts are interrupted by a quiet knock on your door though, and you look up from the fire and call out quiet _come in._ The door opens unsure and tentative, Cleo silhouetted by the faint moonlight, her usually braided her loose and flowing freely past her shoulders, the glow of the fire luminous and glowing, painting her in swathes of reds and oranges that play and dance beautifully with the shade of her hair. She’s wearing a dress too, you notice, hanging loosely from her shoulders and ending just above her knees where it flutters gently with the breeze, you see her tattoo now, in greater detail than you’ve ever seen before, you see the intricate twisting and turning and weaving of the vine as it makes its way up the inside of her forearm, swirling loops around her bicep and tucking behind her back. It’s beautiful you think, and for the first time in a very, very long while you think that maybe you’d like to pick up a paintbrush and put it to a canvas.  

“Can I sit?” she asks, uncertain and a little shy, “I don’t want to disturb,” She looks to Yasmin now, still nestled against you. 

“It’s fine, she’s a heavy sleeper,” you smile, as you motion to the space next to you. Cleo takes a few tentative steps forwards into your hut closing the door behind her, before more confidently sitting herself down besides you.

A comfortable silence hangs between you, and you wait for her to say what’s on her mind - _you think you already know_ \- and you glance to her, every now and then out the corner of your eye and you see the way her skin glitters just slightly, and how the glow of the fire casts dark shadows across her face, and how the flame dances and flickers in her eyes. 

You think then, that in another life, maybe things could have been different between the both of you. The thought doesn’t sadden you though, and you’re a bit surprised at the revelation. 

Acceptance is a funny thing, you think. 

“I always assumed that you and Lexa were friends,” She says eventually, voice soft, gaze still focused on the fire, “close friends, but friends nonetheless,” she turns to you briefly and you hold her gaze for a moment and she smiles ever so slightly, her lips quirking up at the corners, and she looks so much like _her_ that it almost hurts, but it doesn’t. Not anymore, “until you kissed me.” 

You bite your lip at that, a blush spreading slowly and quietly across your cheeks, “sorry,” you whisper, eyes never wavering from hers.

“I am sorry, too, Clarke,” she replies, turning more fully to face you, “for a lot of things,” and you understand. 

_You really do._

You reach out then, tentative but sure and you clasp her hand in yours and it’s warm, rough from years of handling a weapon but you can’t help but feel comforted. It’s steady, and grounding. 

_Like home._

So you sit, hand clasped in Cleo’s, bodies close, shoulders brushing ever so gently, Yasmin cradled against you.

“Friends?” you whisper, and you see Cleo smile then, it’s bittersweet and wistful. But it’s a smile all the same.

“Friends.” 

 

* * *

 

You wake the following day, and you find it warmer than it has been in many mornings. Yasmin unsurprisingly still fast asleep, furs draped over her body leaving feet dangling over the edge of the bed, and you can’t help think that she looks just a bit lankier today. Its just your imagination you tell yourself. 

Cleo left late last night with a soft caress of your shoulder a whispered _goodnight_ on her lips before she walked away but you don’t think things will change between you, not much at least. 

And so you pull yourself out of bed, running a finger over the sole Yasmin’s expose foot, earning you a surprised yelp as it shoots back under the covers and you ready yourself for the day ahead of you a smile on your face.

 

* * *

 

Your morning was spent much the same as yesterday’s. You had worked the morning in the large healers tent in the war camp, more injured having arrived over night, and you’re thankful that none seem to be considerably hurt. Yasmin was there, as always, working diligently next to you, often performing sutures or checking for concussions while you performed some more complex removals of arrows. 

By late afternoon you leave Yasmin under the Watchful eye of Dala, with stern instructions on what she can and can not say, and so you find yourself at the training grounds in the village, blade held comfortably in your hand and a towering Tobias before you, battle axe held firmly in his hands and a twinkle in his eye.

“Remember that you are small, not as strong as me, but potentially faster” He says, slowly swinging the axe in front of him now, “so you must remember to use that to your advantage,” and he waits for just a moment, eyeing you carefully before he’s lunging at you, axe swinging in a smooth, downwards arc. 

You saw it coming though and you timed it perfectly, a blade held firmly in your left hand and a second still in its sheath at your back, sidestepping moments before the axe could touch you, you slip under the swing shifting the first blade slightly, to protect your side as you move closer into him and you draw your second, aiming to slice the inside of his arm in one smooth motion, but he shifts his stance, dropping his centre of gravity just in time, pinning the blade between his arm and his body before you can complete the motion, and he twists sharply, blade flying out of your hand.  

You grimace from the loss of it, and duck away kicking dirt up with your heel, moving into a low crouch shifting your first blade into a reverse grip in your right hand, an attempt to throw him off with a change of fighting style.

Your eyes dart left and right, searching for where you dropped the first weapon only to see that Tobias has placed himself between you and it, a victorious smirk on his face.

“What can you do now? Think of the advantages that I have and the ones you have,” he instructs, axe poised out in front of him, ready and waiting. And you know that his axe is heavy, but deadly, even a blow from the handle could cause considerable damage, but it’s slow to bring to bear in close quarters so you start moving around him quickly, fainting left and right, probing for weakness, and trying to trip up his footwork, to get through his guard as he shifts one foot back, to the sides, and shuffles back and forth, all to keep you further away than your blade can reach. 

You think you can exploit an opening when you line yourself up with Tobias directly between you and your second blade again, so you rush him, faint left, right, roll under the swing of his axe but his knee is there, it strikes you in the gut lifting your feet off the ground but you move with it, letting your body rise, and, pushing up using the momentum of his knee and you thrust your blade into the slit cut into the axe head that reduces weight and you give a hard twist, axe loosening just enough in the death grip Tobias holds that his arms fall to the side, just barely, but enough and now you’re straddling his torso, knees on his chest, your momentum carrying him back and you with him until he lands hard on his back, 

But you’re already moving, already rolling from the fall and you scoop up your weapon, swivel around on your knees, using the spin to throw dirt up into the air, anything to distract him, and you lunge low, blade aimed at his chest, he brings the handle of his axe in a sweep across his chest, catching the blade but you spin with it, and as you spin, you reach out, grasping the second blade still nestled in the axe head with your free hand your fingers just barely closing around it as you spin away from his blow and then your blade is at his throat, Tobias having exposed himself to the second blade in his motion of blocking your first lunge. And you smile, your own victorious smirk mirrored on your face.

His face lights up in surprise just briefly, before he laughs and claps you solidly on the back, sending you tripping forward under the force, words of encouragement and congratulations ringing in your ears as you pick yourself off, Tobias already moving back to the centre of the training ground, preparing for another attack.

 

* * *

 

With aching muscles, thanks to Tobias throwing you to the ground one too many times, you find yourself back in the war camp, medical supplies tucked under your arm, as you search for Yasmin, sure she can’t have gone too far. You’re about to start yelling for her when you feel the back of your neck prickle, an all too familiar feeling of being watched washing over you.

So you turn, searching for the gaze that set your senses tingling. You scan the crowded warriors around you, most are focused on their own tasks, some catch your eye and give a warm nod in recognition. You almost give up but then your eye catches a tent that stands out from the rest. 

And you recognise it. You could never forget it. And your eyes land on the lone figure standing before it, and you see _her._

You see the pauldron resting atop her shoulder, the red of her sash flowing down her body 

You see her and she’s staring at you from across the war camp **.** You expect for her to avert her eyes, to turn her head, to pretend that you didn’t just catch her staring at you. 

But she doesn’t. 

She holds your gaze and you hold hers. Moments tick by, each a drop in the river of your shared history. You think you see something barely there flash across her face,

_Longing? Loss? Lo-_

“Clarke!” You turn to see Yasmin and Dala helping a wounded warrior to the medical tent and you follow, briefly glancing over your shoulder, only to find that she’s gone.


	5. Chapter 5

You aren’t exactly sure what you’re feeling as you walk through the war camp. Trepidation? Maybe,  it would only be reasonable, you think. To be trepidatious, to have her so near after everything. You know it isn’t anger, or fear but there’s still hurt, you can feel it as it lingers just under the surface, but it doesn’t consume you like it did before. It doesn’t make you see red and want to smash the closest thing to you. But it is familiar and it is constant. You know you aren’t ready to let it go just yet, but soon—  

Your thoughts are interrupted when an arm blocks your progress, startling you from your revelry only to you find yourself outside her tent. You’re feet having carried you to her without conscious thought. 

“Wait,” it’s gruff, wary and firm, his tone leaving no room for negotiation. You watch him peer into the tent’s entrance and call out before ducking through. You hear muffled conversation before the tent flap is pulled back, the guard stepping out again and motioning forward, “Heda will see you now, Wanheda,” 

This is it you think and you take a calming breath before you walk through the entrance.

You’re assaulted by an all too familiar scene, her war table sits in the centre of the room, maps strewn across it with small carved figures littering the surface, markers for different units and landmarks. You see her weapons glinting in the candle lit glow, sharp and deadly, where they rest with her armour across a smaller desk tucked into the corner of the room, a half eaten meal resting atop it, your eyes even linger on the curtain that blocks the entrance to her bed.

You’re attention is quickly brought back to the present when you hear two of the same voice talking softly and you look up to see Lexa perched atop her throne of twisted wood and metal, arms resting casually across the armrests.

You take her face in then, exhaustion sits heavily across it, muscles around the eyes tight and dark circles under her eyes. But, despite the clear toll the Azgeda bandits seem to be inflicting upon her, she sits alert, back straight, ever regal as conversation flows between herself and Cleo who stands before her, hand clasped behind her back.  

“Trishana are already moving to cordon the area, replacing the Trikru I have sent to the North. I will be sending the warriors who are here to Polis, to be closer, too, incase of attack. And to provide a comfort for the other clans that share a border with Azgeda that the Coalition will stand by its law.”

“What of Yujleda,” Cleo asks, “You mean to bolster them at the border? or at the cordon you are creating?” and at that she casts a furtive glance your way before continuing, “surely that many warriors in the surrounding forest will draw unwanted attention, Heda,” 

“I will keep them back for now, nearer to Indra at Ton DC, she will welcome the increase in warriors, she has taken a number of wounded from the fighting and her numbers are still lower than usual after the Mountain, but they will be near enough to respond to either threat should it become out of hand” you can’t help but feel guilty at the revelation of Ton DC’s lacking number of warriors, knowing that Lexa refers to the missile that struck the village.

“What of the other clans, Heda, surely they must now realise that Azgeda means to disrupt the Coalition after a season of this continued fighting, even if it is masked as bandit attacks. They are not so blinded that they could ignore these numbers of _bandits._ It is not possible to be so stupid.” 

“I have already discounted Floukru, they will not fight, but they are willing to provide healers and extra food from their supplies. And I will deal with Podakru and Ingranrona in Polis. They will need evidence,” and you think you hear Lexa _almost_ scoff at this, before she continues, “the same goes for Sankru, though only because they are too far away to send warriors without a clear enemy, and Ouskejon and Boudalan will not be hard to convince I do not think, they know trade will suffer between them and the clans already engaged in this fighting, even if it is,” she pauses then to think, “subversive,” It’s certainly more complicated than you had imagined.

The first thing you realise is that the situation must be much worse than you ever realised if Lexa is preparing for a battle from two sides. You’re even surprised that throughout the entire conversation taking place between Cleo and Lexa, neither have looked at you yet, but perhaps you can’t blame them, with the whole coalition seemingly about to go to war with themselves. You can’t help but to feel a spark of anger ignite at that thought. You had ended the Mountain, only for things to turn to chaos not one year later.

You’re still thinking about these turn of events when you hear your name, and looking up you see Cleo has turned to you, and Lexa watches you from where she sits.

“Clarke,” It’s a simple, it’s an opening, a question, a hand reaching out to you, but still. You think you should be cautious, not move too quickly.

“I — uhhh…” You aren’t entirely sure how you want to broach what’s on your mind, not even sure why you feel the need to tell Lexa, but still, you’re here so…

“I’m going back to Camp Jaha, not for long, but I need to go back, to see how they are,” you stammer out, you’re about to continue, to explain some more but—

“No,” Lexa looks at you now, eyes hard, and you blanche, 

_No?_

“And _why not?_ ” You aren’t even angry, you think you should be. _it was_ _rude,_ but… you’re just, surprised? 

“Azgeda is causing problems, it is not safe for you to move freely,” she replies, she pauses to let you take in what she has said and is about to speak again before Cleo cuts in,

“I will go w—”

“ _No,”_ now the answer is stronger, tone approaching an order, Lexa’s gaze hard, leaving no room for discussion but still Cleo continues,

“You can not keep me from moving about Trikru lands,” She argues, chin lifting up in challenge, only to be met by Lexa’s in turn and It’s weird you think. Really fucking weird, especially when they both lift their chin in challenge at exactly. The. Same. Time.

The thought makes you grimace, and you can see this disagreement spiralling into an argument so you step forward, and reach out holding Cleo by the arm and tugging just a bit, just enough to catch her attention. You don’t miss the way Lexa’s gaze narrows just slightly at the action, eyes following the motion of your hand before you stand between them. 

“Ok, Enough,” You cut in, “I’m going, you can’t stop me Lexa,” You’re looking at her now and you see her eye twitch just slightly, jaw clenching just a bit, “Cleo can come too,” you know you’re pushing it now by the way her nostril flares, but today? Today you’re feeling a bit more like Wanheda so you level your hardest glare at her, not willing to back down and you see the resignation in her eyes.

“Tobias will accompany you.” 

 

* * *

 

You sit comfortably atop a horse, Cleo alongside you and Yasmin — and there was absolutely no way Yasmin would allow you to leave without her — chattering away with Dala about grand adventures and the gallant deeds she has no doubt accomplish, all according to Yasmin. Tobias rides ahead a few horse lengths. You turn to Cleo, and you remember when you first met, where you thought she had been sequestered away for her protection and you think of the way Lexa had been reluctant to allow her to leave with you, “Are you not allowed to travel much?” and Cleo looks at you before sighing briefly and shakes her head. 

“No, I am allowed to travel Trikru lands, but Heda often _requests_ that I not leave the clan borders. But in times of conflict it can be much harder to be allowed to travel, even to neighbouring clans,” it’s resignation and familiarity that you see across Cleo’s face now, “I do not think she would allow me to leave in a situation like this, but with three clan’s worth of warriors all loyal to Heda between us and the danger,” and now she smirks at you briefly, “and the mighty Wanheda by my side, she allows it,” You laugh at that, a quiet thing, but her words bring up a memory you hadn’t thought about for a long time … _Because she was mine, they tortured her, killed her, cut off her head…_

 _“_ Is it because of…” but you aren’t sure you know how to continue, and you think that maybe you’ve said too much, overstepped a boundary and touched upon a subject that you shouldn’t have from the moment’s silence you receive, but then Cleo speaks up, soft, mournful,

“Yes,” it’s sad yet tinged with a flame of anger that hasn’t yet had the chance to fully burn out, 

“Sorry,” you whisper, you aren’t sure who you’re saying sorry to, maybe to Cleo, or even Lexa despite her absence. Maybe even Costia, you think she must have been special, must have been a beautiful, brilliantly soul for Lexa to have become so closed off since… But it isn’t your place to pry, not even in your thoughts you think so you tear them away, and look to Yasmin to make sure she is behaving on her horse before you talk again,

“How far is it?” and Cleo thinks for a moment, glances up at the sky to gauge the distance the sun has travelled,

“Only a day and a half at the pace we travel at now,” she responds and so you put your mind back to the well beaten path, your horse setting a swift, measured pace that leaves the greens and browns of the forest a soft blur as your small group travels.

 

* * *

 

You’ve become a skilled rider in the last season, but your muscles haven’t quite adjusted to the long hours spent on horse back and so it’s with extreme pain that you pry yourself off the saddle and fall unceremoniously onto your rear with a damp thud. You’d be happy to lay like this for the rest of eternity, your poor legs protesting any movement, but your stomach grumbles and so you force yourself up to begin setting up your tent for the night before you can eat. 

You find yourself with little to do, having finished propping up the tent, Cleo having stopped working on hers to help a struggling Yasmin reach the higher joints, while Tobias is busy preparing a fire, you think perhaps a bit too large for only five weary travellers, but then again, nothing is ever small with him. So you turn to find Dala checking over a quiver of arrows, bow in hand, “going hunting?” you ask, and she nods, “I’ll come help, I could use the practice.”

You’re crouched, the fur padded shoes you wear helping to muffle even the slightest sound as you step softly through the undergrowth, your eyes dart left and right. You can only just feel Dala somewhere above you, having scaled a tree to gain a better angle on any prey should it flee. You thumb over your own quiver, a skill you only recently decided to try your luck at. You can hit a stationary target accurately most of the time so right now your heart beats just a little faster, excitement and nerves thrumming through you. You hear it then, a faint rustling up a head and you pause, straining your ears to make out a direction. a low hoot comes from above you, signalling that the animal has turned right and so you follow quietly in the signalled direction. You stop then, against a tree to see a small wild boar making its way through the undergrowth, sniffing carefully every now and then to check that no predators lurk nearby. Reaching ever so slowly to your hip you draw an arrow, and knock it to your bow before slowly reaching out, extending your arm and pulling the drawstring back to your chin and you breathe out, look down the arrow shaft, wait for the moment between heart beats… release. 

The arrow whizzes through the air striking the boar, unfortunately embedding itself deep into the animals shoulder and you hiss out in frustration but the boar doesn’t suffer long, its squeal of surprised agony is cut short by a swift follow up arrow fired from above that silences the animal, arrow head sticking out the side of its head. 

Dala drops down from besides you, “close, but you pull too far with your strong arm, you must ensure that both are strong, Wanheda, for an accurate shot,” you murmur a word of thanks before helping her to tie the boar up and bring it back to the camp site.

 

* * *

 

You find that you aren’t a fan of wild boar, it’s stringy, tough and rather tasteless even after you’ve emptied half a small purse of seasoning onto it but you eat it all the same, you do remember the nights of bitter berries so this, despite the taste, is a delight. 

Sleep is hard to find this night, you aren’t used to sleeping on the cold ground again. You toss and turn ever so slightly, your mind a constant source for keeping you awake. You know you’re nervous, excited, anxious even apprehensive but you think, in the long run, that you’ve made the right decision to visit, even just for a moment, and especially now with the Coalition on the brink of _something._ You aren’t sure when the next chance is that you might get. You drift off later that night, your mind full of thoughts of your mother, of everyone back on the Ark… of _Lexa…_

_None of you notice the quiet shadows as they sit, and wait, biding their time._

 

* * *

It’s changed, that much is certain. The temporary fencing replaced by a sturdier, more permanent structure. You even glimpse guard towers looming behind the fence, and you no doubt think that they have a clear view of the surrounding forest. You turn now to the group you travel with and take them in, trying to see them from the perspective of Skaikru.  

Tobias, broad shoulders, face weathered, scarred and hair wild would put any man at unease, even one with a gun, Cleo herself cuts a formidable figure, lithe and strong, a spear rests against her shoulders, strong leather adorning her torso, her arms bare and muscled, you take in Dala, lightly armour, a quiver and bow on her back eyes sharp. And you see Yasmin, wide eyed, toothy grin on her face staring at the Ark in all its mangled, twisted glory. 

You won’t risk taking Yasmin anywhere near a twitchy guardsmen though, and Tobias would probably be shot at on principle and you think Cleo would cause a scene, regardless of how she was dressed. You turn to Dala and signal that you’re ready to move and she replies with a firm nod of her head, you turn briefly to the others, whisper a quick _see you soon_ but before you turn towards the fallen ark you can’t help but feel a little stab of pain when you see the look of hurt flash across Yasmin’s face at having not been selected to come with you. You won’t risk her though and you hope she’ll understand.

Walking through the tree line and towards the Ark, you scan the guard tower, looking for a familiar face anyone you might recognise and signal who you are — and perhaps stupidly you didn’t even think to ask Lexa just what the situation has become between Skaikru and Grounders. You think it must at least be void of conflict though as you see a few guards look your way, some pointing but weapons still held down by their sides. You can hear them now, wary shouts being passed down the line that grounders approach, but you’re thankful that there’s no haste, no urgency to the situation. That must be a good sign.

‘They don’t recognise me,” you say, turning to Dala, but she merely shrugs a shoulder your way,

“You look like Wanheda, your hair is braided and long, you look stronger than these people and you wear our warrior clothes,” you can’t help but agree at her assessment.

Arriving at the gates you see Arkadia emblazoned across. The open slowly then, and you’re greeted by a couple of guardsmen, black uniformed and cleanly shaved and you can’t help but notice that they’d stand out from the forest instantly.

“We weren’t expecting anymore traders until the next month,” one says, and you think you recognise him, just barely — perhaps he guarded you on the Ark. 

“We aren’t traders,” you say then, unsure of how to introduce yourself, “Is uhh… Is Abby around?” you ask, tentative and unsure. You didn’t even consider that she might _not_ be, the last time you saw her she had been tortured, and bones drilled into at the Mountain.

He looks at you quizzically then, “You need medical attention or something?” 

“Yeah, something like that,” you whisper and then you’re following him taking in what was once your home.

You pass small buildings, some workshops, a green house you think you spy, even some  makeshift homes, all constructed from a mismatch of wall paneling off the Ark, wood you assume sourced from the surrounding forrest and bits of tarp and, to your surprise, even furs and leathers that would be more at home constructed as a tent. 

To your surprise — and perhaps even relief — you don’t come across anyone you know personally, the few you pass giving Dala and you both quizzical looks before you’re entering the Ark, artificial lighting replacing the warmth of the sun and you feel Dala shift just slightly next to you as your feet echo across the metal plating that now makes up the ground you walk on. You don’t blame her, even to you it feels unnatural and stifling. making your skin crawl just a bit. 

“We’re here, just call out and Doc will come see you, she’s probably just working on some stuff in her office,” the guard says, casting you one more look over his shoulder as he leaves to return back to his post.

You’re shocked, surprised even, that you’ve been given such liberty within the ark, you were expecting a less welcoming reception, perhaps not unfriendly but certainly you thought you’d be supervised and not left on your own. You glance then at Dala and she too seems to be unsure, so you both shrug then, pressing your hand to the keypad as the door to the infirmary slides open. 

You take it in then, memories coming back of afternoons you had spent in here, watching operation after operation, and a motherly gaze being sent your way every so often. You take in a shaky breath before looking around until you see her, at her desk, scribbling notes down on a pad.

“I will wait here,” Dala murmurs softly.

You don’t realise just how quiet you’ve learnt to tread until you’re in the doorway to her office.

You pause for a moment, take a breath and then you clear your throat, 

“Hi, mom,” 

And her head snaps up, eyes instantly connecting with yours. Shock, Confusion, Anger, Hurt, Relief and Happiness all flash openly across her face before she’s scrambling out of her chair, pad falling to the ground and she lunges at you and she's wrapping you in a tight, tight embrace and that’s all it takes, all you need for the flood gates to come crashing down and you break down in her arms, sobs wracking your body as you cry and shake in her arms.

You think she’s crying too, you hear soft _Clarke’s_ repeated over, and over, and over again, you feel her burry her face in your hair and inhale deeply. You don’t know how long you stay like that, embraced in your mother’s arms and you’ve missed it, you’ve missed it so, so much. 

 

* * *

 

You’re sitting in front of her now, her eyes never leaving your face for long, they flicker up and down your body, taking in the braids you wear and the leathers and furs that cover your body, you even see her eyes fall warily to the blade you have strapped across your thigh. Her eyes shift over to Dala just briefly before finally landing back to you.  

“Clarke…” and she pauses, wipes her eye with the back of her hand, she chokes out, “ _oh baby,”_ and she’s crying again and you think might be crying again so you reach out, just a bit and take her hand in yours and you squeeze tightly.

_I’m here, I’m real._

“Wh— Where’d you go?” she forces out between her hiccups and sobs, “I was so, so worried, I thought you died, I looked, I looked so hard, I tried going further into the wood but, but…” she takes in a deep breath, “Don’t you dare do that again, ok Clarke? Don’t you dare just disappear like that!” And she’s yelling and you don’t blame her. You’d probably yell at yourself too. You think you deserve it.

“I’m ok mom, I promise,” you manage to get out, her hands now cradle your face — and it’s just a bit inconvenient — but you’ve missed it.

“I just needed to get away, just needed to be alone,” you finish,

“But for months?” she’s looking at you, you can see it, as if she thinks you might just disapear, vanish in front of her, “It’s been almost half a yeah, where’d you go? what’d you do? were you with her?” and she looks to Dala, it’s not accusatory, just pleading, and you understand, wouldn’t you want to know everything? 

And so you tell her everything, from wandering lost, to being found, to taking on Yasmin and learning to accept what had happened, of understanding what it means to live again. And you think she too understand, maybe not fully, but just a bit by the way her eyes soften ever so slightly as you continue to explain everything, she even cuts in at your mention of Yasmin asking, hoping, if she could one day meet her and you smile, and you think that you would like that, very very much. You leave out the trouble that you think is brewing though, you don’t want to disturb this, you’re too selfish right now for anything else.

 

* * *

 

“You must want to see the others,” she says after you’ve sat in silence for a while, you think she needed it, needed the time for it all to sink in. you nod your head just a bit. It would be nice to see the others, if they’ll see you after al this time, but she must sense your anxiousness because she gives your knee a gentle squeeze, “they’ll want to see you, I’m sure of it,” and you smile at her softly then, “I’ll take you to them,” she continues, “when you’re ready,” 

You’re about to get up from your seat, to tell her you’re ready, but before you can fully think of doing it she breaks the silence with a quiet, whispered breath, “I understand, Clarke,” and you look up, her eyes are filled with sadness, but she smiles warmly despite it, “you needed to get away, to be alone, but I just wish you had told someone, had told _me,”_ and she looks at you more fully, “I would have taken anything, taken it all,” and you believe her.

“I forgive you,” she whispers then, 

And you know it’s for more than just leaving without a word, for breaking her heart, for making her think she had lost you forever. So you look up at her and you whisper back,

“I forgive you, too,” 

_For dad, for everything._

 

* * *

 

Abby had shown you to Raven’s workshop, littered with machine parts and wires and any number of _things_ you couldn’t name and she’d looked up from a sparking box to greet you with a shocked expression and a loud _WHAT THE FUCK?!_ before she had hobbled her way to you, barely a thought for her braced leg and hugged you so hard you thought she’d broken a rib. You’d cried and you think she’d cried too, even though she denied it vehemently. 

You’d bumped into Monty, Harper in tow and they’d been shocked to see you, you’d exchanged soft words with Harper, before she'd left, leaving you with Monty who had cried on your shoulder. You always blamed yourself for pulling the lever, but you’d never considered Monty’s role in the ordeal. You wish you were a better friend. You’d asked about Jasper but you'd only received a sorrowful shake of the head and a whispered, pained _he’s not doing well._ You don’t blame him.

You saw Octavia briefly, before she had slunk off, leaving you face to face with Lincoln. He had asked about you and how you had found life in a Trikru village and you’d told him it had helped. You could tell he missed it, that he longed to be able to return or even to visit but it wasn’t possible. He left you with a smile and warm grasp of your forearm before he had turned to follow Octavia.

Bellamy, Monroe and Miller had been last, all of them on guard duty at the time, but posted on the opposite side of Arkadia. Monroe had smiled at you warmly, Miller too, you’d shared a laugh with them about your appearance and then they’d left you alone with Bellamy. You didn’t know what to say, what to do, so you had just stood there awkwardly looking at each other before he muttered a soft _I missed you princess_ and then he had wrapped his arms around you and held you close and you were happy just to be in the moment. 

You knew things weren’t good between any of you, not by a long shot, but at least for now they knew you were alive. You’d left Arkadia that night, a final tight embrace from Abby and a whispered _You come back soon, ok, Clarke?_ and you’d replied with a final whispered _I promise. I’ll be back._

 

* * *

 

The travel back to the village was mostly uneventful, the highlight being a creature scampering between your horses that had spooked yours, causing it to rear back, with you holding on for dear life before Cleo could reach over and steady you both, a warm smile on your face and laugh on her lips.  

 

* * *

 

You’ve been riding for hours now, and you must be close, the sun beginning to set but you think you can make it back to the village in the few hour before the daylight finally fades and it’s too hard to properly navigate. Tobias rides ahead still, head continuously surveying the trees around you, looking for any sign that danger might be near, even Dala and Cleo seem a bit more cautious, and you think it’s just the fact that you're close, that you’ll soon be back, safe at the village surrounded by Trikru warriors that’s keeping the others on edge, until you notice Cleo move her horse closer to yours, Dala doing the same for Yasmin. You turn towards Cleo then, face puzzled before she whispers back, 

“There is no noise,” and you see her hand tighten on her spear, and you see Dala slowly notch an arrow to her bow. Tobias has stopped too, bringing his horse closer to the main group, your stomach churning violently, your gaze now focused on the trees that surround you. You’re about to suggest that you move from the exposed path when an arrow whizzes past your head, narrowly missing Cleo and then all hell breaks loose, 

Tobias roars for you to get down, Dala leaps from where she sits atop her horse, two arrows fired in quick succession towards where the arrow had come from, you think you hear a muffled shout as one of her arrows hits a target, you yank Yasmin off her horse, her hand already on her knife and you draw both of yours.

There’s a rush behind you and a shout of pain, and you turn to see Cleo rolling under the swing of a man, ferocious and snarling, his blade narrowly missing her before she swings her spear, striking him across the face before ducking away again and an arrow embedding itself in his throat, Dala rushes forward then, grabs Yasmin and shoves the young second behind her, already drawing another arrow and firing it off into the woods. Cleo turns, catches your eye before she runs forward, and throws her spear in front of her, catching an attacker off guard, clearly not expecting her to give up her weapon. It imbeds itself firmly in his chest and she leaps, rolls onto his falling body and extracts the spear in one smooth motion before she runs to help Tobias.

Tobias, clearly considered the most dangerous is locked in brutal, bone shattering combat as two men, furs grey, speckled with blue lunge at him, he blocks the first strike, and barely misses the stab of the second man before he brings his axe straight down onto the first man’s arm, severing it clean from his shoulder. Tobias doesn’t even register it though, merely throws the man aside and slams the butt of his axe against the second’s face, bone breaking under the force before he slices the axe across his throat, leaving it jagged and gushing blood. 

You yourself are engaged in a fight now, another man, eyes wicked in the fading light circles you before darting in but you’re ready for him and you bring your first blade across your body, blocking the swipe before you slash across with your second, it slicing across his forehead, leaving behind a shallow cut, it’s not enough to really hurt him, but it’s enough for you take advantage of and you drop to your knees in front of him, swivel around and then dart back up behind him as he tries to see through the blood covering his face, only to find your blade protruding from his chest. You’re halfway through yanking it out when you’re hit from behind, and you topple over, you manage to roll, but not before you receive a harsh kick to your gut, winding you and causing your ribs to throb painfully.

You throw a handful of dirt in the direction of the blow before moving into a low crouch ready to face the next threat, only to find three attackers trying to circle you. You make a decision then and you lunge for the first ignoring the other two for the time being and you slash and spin as fast as you can, trying to throw the attacker off balance and close the distance before the others can catch up, you manage to strike him across his forearm, his sword too large to be effective at this range of combat. You’re about to finish a slice across his throat when an arrow shoots into his head, protruding through his eye, a sickly explosion of blood and bodily fluid covering your front, you send a silent thank you to Dala, wherever she is and hope she is able to keep Yasmin safe, but then you’re tackled from behind and land roughly against the hard ground.

You roll over just in time to see Cleo remove her spear from the attackers side before the third slashes his blade at Cleo at the same time an axe is thrown and imbedded firmly in his skull, Tobias, with a roar is already engaging the last of the attackers as they struggle to block the ferocious, vicious swings of his axe while Dala stands defensively, protecting Yasmin from harm. 

But,

You don’t see any of that though. You don’t register a thing, you can’t. 

Not when your eyes stare horrified and transfixed on Cleo. You think it happens in only a moment, a single swift second, but time stills and steadies and is silent around you.

Confusion spreads across Cleo’s face, her eyes unsteady, searching wildly for something, anything, frantic and jittery in their movements. She opens her mouth to speak, and hearing anything would please you in this moment, a curse at having been attacked or a shout of warning to _look out!_ or _behind you!_ You don’t get that though, her mouth opens, only for blood to bubble and froth and gurgle past her lips before she collapses on to the floor, hands reaching for her throat.

 _No_ , _NO!_ You scream, shout, and curse as you scramble your way to her side. Her lips quiver, eyes searching frantically, not quite seeing, but still there, lingering yet distant. 

Your eyes are drawn to the gash, gruesome and jagged that is slashed across her throat all the while blood bubbles and foams and pours from the open wound, mixing with the breaths she tries to take, only for it to be drawn back into her lungs, drowning her, suffocating her, choking her. 

You don’t realise you’re crying until your tears spill onto her cheek. 

You call her name, a sob tearing from you, your hand around her throat, attempting to hold her together, to fix what can’t be fixed, to stave off the inevitable, 

_Anything to give back her breath._

Aren’t you Wanheda, the Commander of Death? The one who chooses who lives and who dies? Didn’t you burn three hundred warriors alive? Aren’t you the Mountain Slayer, the one who ended what no-one before you could? The one who brings Reapers back from the nothingness of their existence? You’re all those things.

But you aren’t. You aren’t any of those things. Not right now. Not in this moment. 

Right now you’re just Clarke, not even fully an adult, not anything but a girl holding a friend cradled in her arms, a hurricane of anger and anguish, brutal and burning, of piercing pain that rips and tears and shatters your soul.

You whisper her name softly and you cradle her close, afraid to hold on too tightly, afraid to let go, to not hold on tight enough, you bring your free hand up, brushing away the loose strands of hair from her brow where they escaped her braids in the chaos that is life. 

Through her pain she must feel you, she must sense you, her eyes focusing slowly on yours, steady once more, 

_Green and vibrant. Full of pain._

_Cleo._

_You whisper her name again,_  

She reaches up then, clasping the hand you have around her throat with her own, her mouth pulling up into a slight, barely there smile, lips quiver just slightly, and a single tear falls quietly down her cheek, 

 _and she breathes out,_ _Just once more._

You bring your head to rest against hers, lips brushing her skin and you hold her ever so tightly before the grip around your hand slackens, bright green dulls, and fades, and glosses over, 

_Life leaving her behind._

_Cleo._


	6. Chapter 6

Pain is something of a companion you think, death a constant, looming figure that hovers and waits, silent and ever present just in the periphery of your vision and you see it, you know you do, and you feel it, you feel the voices that it whispers in the recesses of your mind. And when you try and catch a glimpse, to look it in the eye it shifts, bends itself and writhes just slightly, just enough to avoid being pinned by your gaze, to avoid being banished by sheer will alone. 

You just want to be left in peace.

You don’t want to feel it anymore. 

You don’t want to feel anything anymore. 

But you know your time will come. It always does for _you_.

But still, after all these times?

It hurts. 

It hurts so, so much but you force yourself to feel it, to embrace it with open arms. Isn’t that what it means to accept death? To understand it? To be ready for it? Death is not the end. How many times have _you_ said those words? But still, every time _you_ feel it, it hurts so very, very, much,

Isn’t it because you care?

Maybe you care too much. Even when you shouldn’t, even when you have no reason _to_ care. 

But you do.

Is that even possible? 

Is it even— 

 _ENOUGH_. It rings out harsh and loud in your mind, and it startles you. 

 _Three_ you count, once for each time a piece of you died, and you wonder then, will you hear a fourth? Do you even have enough left for a fourth? 

You hear it softly then, a faint whisper that retreats slowly, fading… 

_Love is weakness._

_To_   _be Commander is to be alone._

_In everything._

 

* * *

 

You stare into the burning embers, long after the fire has died down to a low, faint glow. You stare so long that you think it has seared itself into your mind. You stare so long into the dying embers that your eyes sting and burn and water but you can’t blink and you don’t turn your eyes. You imagine the fire burning away the last traces of the memory. But it doesn’t ever fade. You don’t think it ever will.

Isn’t that what she helped you to realise though? That it’s ok to feel this, it’s ok to embrace it and it’s ok to not be _ok_? 

You think even Lexa, resolute and quiet besides you, must be hurting, must be screaming and shouting out in her mind, tearing at the cages of her carefully constructed mask. You think you see a spark, just a faint light in her eyes as her eyes waver just slightly from where she looks to the resting place of her sister, now just a burnt shell of a pyre that had carried her away.

“She helped me,” you speak out to the darkness around you and you hope that maybe that spark you saw in Lexa’s eye might just chase away the night, “she was there when I needed someone, even when I thought I didn’t,” you pause and look at Lexa now, her face cast in shadow, the red of her sash a deep, bloody glow around her. An angel of death you think, a bearer of destruction. A bastion of pain, heartache and heartbreak. And you feel it all in the way she holds her self, never allowing herself to just _feel._

So you reach out now, if only in words, “It’s normal, Lexa, to feel something… _anything_ ” and you want to shake her, to shake that carefully constructed facade — and it must be a facade you think —to shake her so violently that her cage breaks so that _she_ breaks. So that she allows her self to feel, even for just a moment. But you don’t. You watch as she closes her eyes for only a moment. 

“I knew her only as a warrior, Clarke, nothing more,” 

“She was your _sister_ ,” you’re pleading, begging her to just let herself _be_ in this moment _._ And you remember her words… 

_perhaps I can miss what could have been_

_“_ She mourned the loss of _you,_ Lexa, can’t you see that?” 

Lexa looks to you then, her eyes hard, unflinching.

“You can not mourn the loss of something you never had,” It’s cold, emotionless and _wrong_. 

You aren’t even sure you know who she refers to. 

But you remember her words.

_Love is weakness._

 

* * *

 

It’s strange and bittersweet to walk through the war camp in the early morning. The sun already warming the grounds around you, warriors already waking and moving. You can see them lift large crates onto carts, beginning to pack what isn’t needed immediately in preparation for a hasty departure. 

It’s like nothing has really even changed. 

Another drop in the roiling sea of time. To be forgotten. But not by you.

So you force yourself to stop, to rid your mind of thinking, just for a while, just for long enough that you can concentrate on what needs to be done and so you push through the flaps of the healers tent and let the injured take your mind for just a while.

 

* * *

 

“It is Azgeda clothing, I am sure of it,” Tobias says, 

“But why allow themselves to be so easily identified now?” Dala holds up a fur coat taken from one of the dead attackers, “did they seriously think we would not recognise it?” 

“Azgeda grows more bold,” Lexa cuts in before more speculation can drive the conversation, “Scouts report growing numbers of Azgeda across the border, only a few days march from Trikru and Floukru lands,” Tobias growls angrily at the unexpected revelation, it even gives you pause and you can’t help but wonder why they would throw all this deceit away now. 

“It does no one any good to speculate on the why’s for now, Trikru and Trishana are already mobilising, Yujleda will remain for now as a reserve force, You and your rangers will be coming with me, Tobias,” and he nods his head in agreement, clearly happy to finally be aloud to vent his frustrations on something more _deserving_ of it than his own warriors in the training grounds.

“And the other clans Heda, they will be marching, too?” asks Dala,

“Not your concern at the moment,” Lexa replies evenly, Dala merely bowing her head slightly, taking the reprimand in stride easily. Lexa then raises her hand, clear dismissal and you follow Tobias and Dala out of her tent, but you turn, just before the exit, to look at her, and you think, just for a moment that you see her sag just a bit under the weight of all that is happening, all that has happened.

And you think her awfully alone. You remember Gustus as he stood by her side, and you remember Anya and you can’t help but wonder how long it has been since anyone helped to bear the burden that Lexa must carry. So you think that maybe you should take the first step, maybe you _need_ to take the first step and reach out, that it might be time to help bear the weight that rests upon her shoulders. 

Isn’t that what Cleo did for you?

So you pause before exiting and you take a breath, “I’m coming with you,” she looks at you then. And you see surprise, but there’s also something else, a faint lingering, a twitch that passes across her face, and a spark in her eyes, just barely visible but you see it. You think that perhaps you should say something else, you want to say something more, but you don’t. It isn’t the right time. 

Not yet.

 

* * *

 

You walk to your hut, the moon a lonely sentinel guiding your way. There’s a stillness to the air around you, it lingers, draws a chill from you and you can’t help but to wrap your arms around yourself. 

You open the door quietly and step inside. A faint orange glow sits peacefully within the confines of what has been your home for almost half a year and you look around, and you think of the times you had cried, the times you had screamed and cursed and broken down. But within those heart aching moments you remember Yasmin steadfast by your side, always there with  small hand resting upon your shoulder, to ground you, to guide you through your turmoil, a sure and constant companion through your sleeping moments.

You had thought briefly of disappearing early with the forward patrol of the war camp the coming morning, to leave her behind, to save her from the suffering you’re sure is to find you. But you think she would suffer far worse if you were to abandon her. You had thought of her mother, who she never had the chance to meet, of how she had never felt a mother’s embrace and whispered words of pride. And you think of her father, a warrior, fierce and loyal, you imagine him, eyes twinkling with delight at Yasmin mastering a skill after hours of practice only for him to be snatched from her, taken from her before she was ready, before she really even had a chance. 

And as you look upon her now, curled into her bed, furs still wrapped tightly around her you come to the realisation in this moment that you will never leave her. Not willingly, and you will fight to the bitter, defiant end to see that she has a happy life.

You sit softly on the edge of her bed then, that very thought coursing through your mind. You don’t wish to wake her, but you think you may not get a chance to see her this way again for a long while — maybe even ever, but you quickly dismiss the thought, it has no place here in this moment. You lie down next to her now and take her in, and you memorise every freckle that sits across her face, the way her hair curls and sits untameable, a mind of its own and you see how peaceful she looks as she sleeps.

“I never told you why I came here,” you whisper out to her then, “I did some terrible things a long time ago,” you feel the wetness pool in your eyes, “I killed a lot of people. I didn’t want to, but I had to, to save my friends. To save my people. And it hurt so, so much every time,” you reach out softly to brush a strand of hair from her face gently, “And at the Mountain, I had to kill people, some were innocent, a few were even my friends. But I did it anyway, to save my people,” you feel the tears begin to fall now, “I hated myself for making the choice, I hated myself for being able to even consider it. So I needed to get away, to find myself again. And then Cleo brought me here, and I met you,” you smile at the memory, of when you first saw her, determined and never giving up, “Cleo helped teach me that it was ok to be angry and it was ok to be sad,” you smile at Yasmin now, “I’m still hurting I think, I can live with it though, I can accept what has happened and what I’ve done. I can even understand all the choices that were made. I think I can even forgive myself eventually,” you pause, and you let the weight of the truth really sink in, before you continue, “And for you Yasmin,” 

“I would suffer it all again.” 

 

* * *

 

You hear a faint knock on your door and you look up from where you sit on your bed, what few belongings you own already stowed away safely in your pack. You call out a soft _come in_. The door opens then, an uncertainty to its swing and you see that Lexa stands in the doorway, resolute and sure in her posture, but you see it, a flash of uncertainty passing across her face. 

“Are you packed?” she asks. You look at her, silhouetted by the light shining in from the door way. Taking a glimpse past her you see warriors from her war camp moving about, many readying extra provisions for the journey to Polis. You spot Yasmin, all gangly limbed, struggling with a pack much too large for her. You even spy Tobias, axe strapped to his back, help a wounded warrior onto her horse. There’s no rest for the weary and wounded, not this time, not with Azgeda causing so many issues across the border. 

You look back at Lexa and nod, your hand coming to rest atop the blade strapped to your thigh out of habit, a constant weight that you’ve come to find grounds you in the here and now.

She steps further into the room. 

At first tentative. Then more sure.  

She halts, the fireplace between you both. You see her take a breath, holding it for just a moment before releasing it. Despite what has happened between you both, first before the fall of the mountain and since, you have hardly broached the topic of this tense _thing_ that exists between you. Only sharing cursory glances and exchanges of words. And never mentioning her actions at the mountain, of turning her back on you, 

On _us,_ you think. And isn’t that the reason for why you’re both here now? A Mountain between you?

Cleo would know what to say, what to do to in this tense moment that hangs heavily around you. You know she would have the words. If only she were still here.

“We leave soon,” Lexa continues, taking a moment to contemplate her next words or to find the courage to continue, you don't know, “your horse is ready,” she finishes instead. Still, despite this, you haven’t uttered a word yet, you think she has more to say, you feel it. You see her plant her feet more firmly beneath her, hands clasp behind her back, grounding herself.

“I can not be sorry, Clarke,” she pauses, gaze steady and firm yet you refuse to meet her eyes, your own gaze focused somewhere just past her left ear, “for making the decision I made,” she breaths out, you know what her next words will be.

“I am not sorry,” her voice is steady, firm and strong. 

You expected it, but, it still leaves a sting in its wake.

Her eyes drill into you now, she moves so that she stands in the line of your sight, her eyes meeting yours, pleading, asking you to meet her gaze, to hold it so that the truth of her words can be seen, “but,” and here she nods to herself before taking a breath. Holding it for longer than a moment and you think you see the moment in time in which she makes a decision, a choice, one that could haunt her forever or build her into something more, 

“I am sorry,” she blinks then, a sheen to her eyes, “that my decision caused you pain.” 

It’s simple you think, to the point, but the truth is there in her eyes for you to see and you hear the confession, feel it as the words sink in slowly. 

_Love is weakness._

You let the silence stretch out between you both, tension building, nearing a painful, spiteful breaking point. You think you should respond. Say something, maybe even acknowledge what had once passed between you both but you look through her instead, mouth unmoving. 

She blinks then, breaking eye contact before turning slowly, mournfully. She’s halfway to the door before you decide that you don’t want to leave things unsaid before you are once more thrown into the fray, your thoughts quickly turning to your one sided confession to Yasmin late last night. Memories of Wells fill your mind too, of happier times and too late forgiveness and the absence of goodbyes, you remember holding Cleo, face her own, yet so, so much like _hers_ and how her mouth had wavered, lips quivering as life left her, body cradled in your arms _._ You think of mistakes made, and prices paid and you think, in this moment, maybe you really are willing. 

Willing to accept. Willing to understand. Ready to _forgive._

“Wait,” it’s soft, but she hears it over the din that exists outside the quiet embrace of your room, you think she’d always hear it. Her hand stills on the doorframe, as if to steady trembling limbs, to you she has always been fearless and fearsome, sure but careful, gracefully yet poignant but here she seems unsure and incomplete. She turns slowly, carefully so as not to spook the caged and frightened beast that you feel she sees. 

“I hated you,” her eyes fall, just slightly at your admission. But you think she senses you have more to say, her chin lifts just slightly, willing herself to take the verbal blows, proud and determined, accepting, “I hated myself too,” you continue, “…accepting what you did - what I did - what we _both_ did… it was hard,” you pause to steady your breathing, heart beating fast, “being ok with what I did didn’t stop me from hating you for forcing me into that position though. To have to make the decisions I made. I hated myself for being willing to take that step,” you finish, your voice trembling, breath coming out shaky and uneven, “but,” and here you pause again, take a deep, calming breath and hold it for a moment. A thought flashing through your mind again,

_Love is weakness._

Perhaps she felt the same as you, this truth you feel you are going to release, to set it free into the void between you both, hoping that somehow it might find the other side, that it might find purchase. You feel as though you are at a precipice, a convergence of decisions and actions taken. You could step back, planting your feet firmly to the ground behind you. Or you could take that step forward, lean just that smallest bit too far and embrace the other side. You feel as though you could fall, tumbling and spiralling out of control, or you could leap and rise and soar. All these thoughts flash through your mind, mere moments in time but for you it seems an eternity and you think she feels the same by the way her breath catches just slightly, yet her eyes never waver, never leave yours. You’d forgotten just how green they could be. 

“I don’t know if I can ever trust you the same way again,” 

But that trust? you think it can be rebuilt, can grow on the foundation of what you can imagine forming between you both once again. Perhaps all you needed was a catalyst, the slightest of pushes, of acceptance and understanding… and you think you found that in Cleo _._ And you thank her, for everything she has done for you, for everything she did, and you hope that wherever she now finds herself, that she is happy.

And so you breathe in once more.

“I understand why you made that choice,” You smile for just a moment and it’s bittersweet but full of life, and you see her face soften, eyes widen, and you whisper to her, “I would have done the same,” you hold her gaze, to make sure she sees the truth in your eyes, sees the unspoken words and you think, _you know_ , she does. You’re standing now, there’s still space between you but you feel closer than you’ve been in months, walls seemingly closing around you, but this time it isn’t constricting, isn’t suffocating. It’s warm and comfortable and safe…  

So you breathe out just one last time before you let yourself step over the precipice and let yourself just… 

 _be_. 

“I forgive you.”


End file.
